UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


AMERICA 

My  country,  't  is  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

/Of  thee  I  sing  ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, 

Thy  name  I  love  ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills  ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom 's  song  ; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake. 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break,  — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 
I  To  Thee  we  sing  ; 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom*  s  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 
Great  God,  our  King. 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH. 


POEMS  OF 
AMERICAN  HISTORY 

COLLECTED  AND  EDITED 
BY 

BURTON  EGBERT  STEVENSON 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  •  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  DALLAS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 

press  Cambribge 


149038 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ08  AND  1 92 2,  BY  BURTON  EGBERT  STEVENSON 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


J3rf«s 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


:! 


PS' 
595 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE 


All  rights  on  poems  in  this  volume  are  reserved  by  the  holders  of  the  copyright.  The  publishers  and 
others  named  in  the  following  list  are  the  proprietors,  either  in  their  own  right  or  as  agents  for  the 
authors,  of  the  poems  of  which  the  authorship  and  titles  are  given,  and  of  which  the  ownership  is  thus 
specifically  noted  and  is  hereby  acknowledged. 

Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York.  —  William  Cullen  Bryant:  "The  Green  Mountain  Boys," 
"  Seventy-Six,"  "  Song  of  Marion's  Men,"  "  Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race,"  "  Our  Country's  Call,"  "  Abra 
ham  Lincoln,"  "Centennial  Hymn." 

Messrs.  Richard  D.  Badger  &  Co.,  Boston.  —  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson:  "The  Klondike." 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis.  —  Charles  Edward  Russell  :  "  The  Fleet  at  Santiago," 
from  "Such  Stuff  as  Dreams." 

The  Century  Company,  New  York.  —  Richard  Watson  Gilder:  "At  the  President's  Grave,"  "Charles 
ton,"  "The  White  City,"  "  The  Comfort  of  the  Trees  ";  Robert  Underwood  Johnson  :  "  Dewey  at  Manila  "; 
Silas  Weir  Mitchell:  "Herndon,"  "How  the  Cumberland  went  down,"  "Kearsarge,"  "Lincoln,"  "The 
Song  of  the  Flags."  From  the  Century  Magazine.  —  William  Tuckey  Meredith:  "Farragut";  Helen 
F.  More:  "What's  in  a  Name";  Will  Henry  Thompson:  "The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg." 

The  Robert  Clarke  Company,  Cincinnati.  —  William  Davis  Gallagher:  "The  Mothers  of  the  West"; 
William  Haines  Lytle:  "The  Siege  of  Chapultepec,"  "The  Volunteers." 

Q  Messrs.  Henry  T.  Coates  &  Co.,  Philadelphia.  —  Ethel  Lynn  Beers:  "The  Picket-Guard";  Charles 

,  j        Fenno  Hoffman:  "Rio  Bravo,"  "Monterey." 

i  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York.  —  Ernest  McGaffey  :  "  Little  Big  Horn,"  "  Geronimo  "  ;  William 

I         Henry  Venable:  "John  Filson,"  "Johnny  Appleseed,"  "The  Founders  of  Ohio,"  "El  Emplazado," 
0        'Battle-Cry,"  "National  Song." 
&  The  R.  R.  Donnelly  &  Sons  Company,  Chicago.  —  Francis  Brooks:  "Down  the  Little  Big  Horn." 

Messrs.  Dana  Estes  &  Co.,  Boston.  —  Hezekiah  Butterworth:    "The  Thanksgiving  for  America," 

"The  Legend  of  Waukulla,"  "The  Fountain  of  Youth,"  "  Verazzano,"  "Ortiz,"  "Five  Kernels  of  Corn," 

^        "The  Thanksgiving  in  Boston  Harbor,"   "Roger  Williams,"   "Whitman's  Ride  for  Oregon,"   "The 

,        Death  of  Jefferson,"  "Garfield's  Ride  at  Chickamauga,"  "The  Church  of  the  Revolution." 
4pf          Messrs.  Funk  &  Wagnalls,  New  York.  —  Richard  Realf:  "The  Defence  of  Lawrence." 

5  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York.  —  Wallace  Bruce:    "Parson  Allen's  Ride";    Will  Carleton: 

"The  Prize  of  the  Margaretta,"  "Across  the  Delaware,"  "The  Little  Black-Eyed  Rebel,"  "Cuba  to 
Columbia,"  "The  Victory-  Wreck  ";  William  Dean  Howells:  "The  Battle  in  the  Clouds";  Herman  Mel- 
Q       ville:  "Malvern  Hill,"  "The  Victor  of  Antietam,"  "The  Cumberland,"  "Running  the  Batteries,"  "A 
•^       Dirge  for  McPherson,"  "Sheridan  at  Cedar  Creek,"  "The  Fall  of  Richmond,"  "The  Surrender  at  Appo- 
A.       mattox,"  "At  the  Cannon's  Mouth."   From  Harper's  Magazine  and  Harper's  Weekly.  —  Guy  Wetmore 
Carryl  :  "  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  in  "  ;  Joseph  B.  Gilder  :  "  The  Parting  of  the  Ways  "  ;  Thomas 
A.Janvier:  "Santiago";  Thomas  Dunn  English:  "Arnold  at  Stillwater,"   "The  Charge  by  the  Ford," 
"The  Fall  of  Maubila,"  "The  Battle  of  the  Cowpens,"  "The  Battle  of  New  Orleans";  John  Eliot  Bowen: 
"The  Man  who  rode  to  Conemaugh." 

Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston.  —  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich:  "Fredericksburg,"  "By  the  Poto 
mac,"  "The  Bells  at  Midnight,"  "An  Ode  on  the  Unveiling  of  the  Shaw  Memorial,"  "Unguarded 
Gates";  Phoebe  Gary:  "Ready,"  "Peace":  John  White  Chadwick:  "  Mugford's  Victory,"  "Full  Cycle"; 
Mrs.  Florence  Earle  Coates:  "Columbus,"  "Buff  lo,"  "Bythe  Conemaugh";  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch: 
"After  the  Centennial";  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson:  "Concord  Hymn,"  "Boston  Hymn";  Annie  Fields: 
"Cedar  Mountain";  Louise  Imogen  Guiney:  "John  Brown";  Francis  Bret  Harte:  "Caldwell  of  Spring 
field,"  "The  Reveille,"  "John  Burns  of  Gettysburg,"  "  A  Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army,"  "An  Arctic 
Vision,"  "Chicago";  John  Hay:  "Miles  Keogh's  Horse";  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes:  "A  Ballad  of  the 
Boston  Tea-Party,"  "Lexington,"  "Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle,"  "Old  Ironsides," 
"Daniel  Webster,"  "Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline,"  "Sherman  's  in  Savannah,"  "After 
the  Fire,"  "Welcome  to  the  Nations,"  "On  the  Death  of  President  Garfield,"  "Additional  Verses  to 
Hail  Columbia";  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe:  "Our  Country,"  "Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  "Robert 
E.  Lee,"  "Pardon,"  "Parricide,"  "J.  A.  G.";  William  Dean  Howells:  "The  Battle  in  the  Clouds"; 
Lucy  Larcom:  "Mistress  Hale  of  Beverly,"  "The  Nineteenth  of  April,"  "The  Sinking  of  the  Merri- 
mack";  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow:  "The  Skeleton  in  Armor,"  "Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,"  "The 
War-Token,"  "The  Expedition  to  Wessagusset,"  "Prologue,"  "The  Proclamation,"  "Prologue," 
"The  Trial,"  "The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond,"  "A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,"  "The  Embarkation," 
"Paul  Revere's  Ride,"  "Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,"  "The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus," 
"Victor  Galbraith,"  "The  Cumberland,"  "The  Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,"  "President  Garfield," 
"The  Republic";  James  Russell  Lowell:  "Flawless  his  Heart,"  "The  New-Come  Chief,"  "Mr.  Hosea 
Biglow  speaks,"  "What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks,"  "Jonathan  to  John,"  "The  Washers  of  the  Shroud," 


vi  COPYRIGHT   NOTICE 


"Ode  recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration";  William  Vaughn  Moody :  "On  a  Soldier  fallen  in  the 
Philippines,"  "  An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation ";  Nora  Perry:  "Running  the  Blockade";  Edna  Dean 
Proctor:  "Columbus  Dying,"  "The  Captive's  Hymn,"  "The  Lost  War-Sloop,"  "  Sa-ca-ga-we-a, "  "John 
Brown,"  "The  Brooklyn  Bridge";  Margaret  Junkin  Preston :  "The  Mystery  of  Cro-a-tan,"  "The  Last 
Meeting  of  Pocahontas  and  the  Great  Captain,"  "The  First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish,"  "The 
First  Thanksgiving  Day,"  "Dirge  for  Ashby,"  "Under  the  Shade  of  the  Trees,"  "Virginia  Capta," 
"Acceptation";  John  Godfrey  Saxe:  "How  Cyrus  laid  the  Cable";  Edward  Rowland  Sill:  "The 
Dead  President";  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford:  "How  we  became  a  Nation,"  "Can't";  Edmund  Clar 
ence  Stedman:  "Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call,"  "Salem,"  "Aaron  Burr's  Wooing,"  "How  Old 
Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry,"  "Sumter,"  "Wanted  —  A  Man,"  "Kearny  at  Seven  Pines,"  "Treason's 
Last  Device,"  "Gettysburg,"  "Abraham  Lincoln,"  "Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for  Gold,"  "Custer,"  "Liberty 
Enlightening  the  World,"  "Cuba,"  "Hymn  of  the  West";  Bayard  Taylor:  "Through  Baltimore," 
"Lincoln  at  Gettysburg,"  "The  National  Ode";  Joseph  Russell  Taylor:  "Breath  on  the  Oat";  Edith 
M.  Thomas:  "A  Christopher  of  the  Shenandoah,"  "To  Spain  —  A  Last  Word";  Maurice  Thompson: 
"  The  Ballad  of  Chickamauga  " ;  J.  T.  Trowbridge :  "  Columbus  at  the  Convent ";  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 
Ward:  "Conemaugh";  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney:  "Peace";  John  G.  Whittier:  "The  Norsemen,"  "Norem- 
bega,"  "  John  Underbill,"  "Cassandra  Southwick,"  "The  King's  Missive,"  "St.  John,"  "Pentucket," 
"Lexington,"  "The  Vow  of  Washington,"  "Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,"  "Texas,"  "The  Angels  of  Buena 
Vista,"  "The  Crisis,"  "To  William  Lloyd  Garrison,"  "Ichabod,"  "The  Kansas  Emigrants,"  "Burial  of 
Barber,"  "Le  Marais  duCygne,"  "  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,"  "Barbara  Frietchie,"  "The  Battle  Autumn 
of  1862,"  "At  Port  Royal,"  "To  John  C.  Fre'mont,"  "  Astrseaat  the  Capitol,"  "The  Proclamation,"  "Laus 
Deo,"  "To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress,"  "The  Cable  Hymn,"  "Chicago,"  "Centennial  Hymn,"  "On  the 
Big  Horn,"  "  The  Bartholdi  Statue";  Forceythe  Willson:  "Boy  Brittan";  Constance  Fenimore  Wool- 
son:  "Kentucky  Belle."  From  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  —  George  Houghton:  "The  Legend  of  Walbach 
Tower";  Henry Newbolt :  "Craven";  Thomas  William  Parsons:  "Dirge." 

Mr.  P.  J.  Kenedy,  New  York.  —  Abram  J.  Ryan:  "The  Conquered  Banner." 

The  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  Philadelphia.  —  Virginia  Woodward  Cloud:  "The  Ballad  of  Sweet  P." 

The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia.  —  George  Henry  Boker:  "Upon  the  Hill  before  Centre- 
ville,"  "Dirge  for  a  Soldier,"  "Zagonyi,"  "On  Board  the  Cumberland,"  "The  Cruise  of  the  Monitor," 
"  The  Ballad  of  New  Or  cans,"  "  The  Varuna,"  "Hooker's  Across,"  " Before  Vicksburg,"  "The  Black 
Regiment,"  "The  Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain";  William  C.  Elam:  "The  Mecklenburg  Declaration" ; 
Robert  Loveman:  "Hobson  and  his  Men";  Marion  Manville:  "The  Surrender  of  New  Orleans," 
"Lee's  Parole";  Henry  Peterson:  "The  Death  of  Lyon";  Thomas  Buchanan  Read:  "The  Rising," 
"Valley  Forge,"  " Blennerhassett's  Island,"  "The  Attack,"  "Sheridan's  Ride,"  "The  Eagle  and 
Vulture";  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor:  "The  Virginians  of  the  Valley,"  "A  Battle  Ballad,"  "Our  Left," 
"  Little  Giffen." 

The  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company,  Boston. — Richard  Burton:  "The  Old  Santa  F6"  Trail"; 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne :  "Macdonald's  Raid,"  "Beyond  the  Potomac,"  "Vicksburg,"  "The  Battle  of 
Charleston  Harbor,"  "Charleston,"  "The  Stricken  South  to  the  North,"  "South  Carolina  to  the  States 
of  the  North,"  "Yorktown  Centennial  Lyric";  William  Hamilton  Hayne:  "The  Charge  at  Santiago." 

The  McClure  Company,  New  York.  — Edwin  Markham:  "Lincoln." 

Messrs.  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago. — Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood:  "Albert  Sidney  Johnston," 
"  Thomas  at  Chickamauga." 

The  Macmillan  Company,  New  York.  —  Hamlin  Garland :  "  Logan  at  Peach  Tree  Creek  " ;  George  Ed 
ward  Woodberry:  "Our  First  Century,"  "  Essex  Regiment  March,"  "  The  Islands  of  the  Sea,"  "O  Land 
Beloved." 

The  Mershon  Company,  New  York.  —  John  Boyle  O'Reilly:  "Crispus  Attucks,"  "At  Fredericks- 
burg,"  "Chicago,"  "Boston,"  "Midnight  —  September  19,  1881,"  "The  Ride  of  Collins  Graves," 
"  Mayflower." 

The  Oliver  Ditson  Company,  New  York.  — Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood:  "Molly  Pitcher." 

Out  West,  Los  Angeles.  — Sharlot  M.  Hall:  "Arizona." 

Messrs.  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.,  Boston.  — Charles  G.  D.  Roberts:  "Brooklyn  Bridge,"  "In  Apia  Bay,"  "A 
Ballad  of  Manila  Bay." 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York. — Louis  James  Block:  "The  Final  Struggle";  Guy  Wetmore 
Carryl :  "  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  in." 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York.  —  William  Ernest  Henley:  "Romance";  George  Parsons 
Lathrop:  "Keenan's  Charge";  Sidney  Lanier:  "The  Story  of  Vinland,"  "The  Triumph,"  "Lexington," 
"Land  of  the  Wilful  Gospel,"  "The  Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson,"  "The  Centennial  Meditation 
of  Columbia";  Thomas  Nelson  Page:  "The  Dragon  of  the  Seas";  James  Jeffrey  Roche:  "Panama"; 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard:  "Abraham  Lincoln,"  "Men  of  the  North  and  West,"  "The  Little  Drum 
mer." 

Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  Boston.  —  Richard  Hovey:  "The  Word  of  the  Lord  from  Havana," 
"The  Battle  of  Manila";  Walt  Whitman:  "Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors,"  "O  Captain!  My  Captain!" 
"The  Sobbing  of  the  Bells." 

Messrs.  Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago.  — John  Williamson  Palmer:   "The  Fight  at  San  Jacinto." 

The  Whitaker  <fe  Ray  Company,  San  Francisco.  — Joaquin  Miller:  "Columbus,"  "The  Defence  of  the 
Alamo,"  "Alaska,"  "Rejoice,"  "Cuba  Libre,"  "San  Francisco,"  "Resurge  San  Francisco." 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE  vii 


The  Youth's  Companion,  Boston.  —  Mary  A.  P.  Stansbury:  "  The  Surprise  at  Ticonderoga  ";  Thomaa 
Tracy  Bouv6:  "The  Shannon  and  the  Chesapeake." 

In  addition  to  the  above,  the  compiler  begs  to  acknowledge  express  permission  from  the  following 
authors  for  the  use  of  such  of  their  poems  as  appear  in  this  volume: 

Joel  Benton,  Louis  James  Block,  Virginia  Fraser  Boyle,  Robert  Bridges,  Wallace  Bruce,  Richard 
Burton,  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  Will  Carleton,  Madison  Cawein,  Robert  W.  Chambers,  John  Vance  Cheney, 
Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke,  Virginia  Woodward  Cloud,  Florence  Earle  Coates,  Kinahan  Cornwallis,  F.  Marion 
Crawford,  Mrs.  Ernest  Crosby  (for  Ernest  Crosby),  Caroline  Duer,  Barrett  Eastman,  Francis  Miles  Finch, 
Hamlin  Garland,  Joseph  D.  Gilder,  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  Arthur  Guiterman,  Sharlot  M.  Hall,  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  William  Hamilton  Hayne  (for  himself  and  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne),  Caroline  Hazard, 
Rupert  Hughes,  Minna  Irving,  Thomas  A.  Janvier,  Tudor  Jenks,  John  Howard  Jewett,  Robert  Under 
wood  Johnson,  Walter  Learned,  Robert  Loveman.'Charles  F.  Lummis,  Ernest  McGaffey,  Edwin  Mark- 
ham,  John  James  Meehan,  Lloyd  Mifflin,  William  Vaughn  Moody,  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  Mrs.  John  W. 
Palmer  (for  John  Williamson  Palmer),  John  James  Piatt,  Wallace  Rice,  Laura  E.  Richards,  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson,  James  Jeffrey  Roche,  John  Jerome  Rooney,  Alfred  D.  Runyon,  Charles  Edward 
RusseM,  Clinton  Scollard,  Mrs.  Katherine  Brownlee  Sherwood,  Lewis  Worthington  Smith,  Joseph 
Russell  Taylor,  Richard  H.  Titherington,  William  Henry  Venable,  Robert  Burns  Wilson. 


COPYRIGHT  NOTICE  FOR  NEW  EDITION 

The  Editor  is  indebted  to  the  following  authors  and  publishers  for  permission  to  use  the  poems  men« 
tioned,  all  rights  in  which  are  reserved: 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews:  "A  Call  to  Arms." 

Robert  Bridges:  "To  the  United  States  of  America." 

Dana  Burnet:  "Marching  Song." 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr:  "  Pershing  at  the  Tomb  of  Lafayette." 

Witter  Bynner  (by  Anne  L.  Wellington):  "Republic  to  Republic." 

Eleanor  Rogers  Cox:  "The  Return." 

George  H.  Doran  Company:  "  The  White  Ships  and  the  Red,"  from  Main  Street,  and  Other  Poems,  by 
Joyce  Kilmer,  copyright  1917. 

John  Chipman  Farrar:  "Brest  Left  Behind,"  from  Contemporary  Verse. 

Richard  Butler  Glaenzer:  "A  Ballad  of  Redhead's  Day." 

Daniel  Henderson:  "The  Road  to  France." 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company:  "Victory  Bells,"  from  Wilderness  Songs,  by  Grace  Hazard  Conkling. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson:  "To  the  Returning  Brave." 

Aline  Kilmer  (for  Joyce  Kilmer):  "The  White  Ships  and  the  Red,"  "Rouge  Bouquet." 

Richard  Le  Gallienne:  "After  the  War." 

Vachel  Lindsay:  "Abraham  Lincoln  walks  at  Midnight." 

J.  Corson  Miller:  "Epicedium." 

Randall  Parrish:  "  Your  Lad  and  My  Lad." 

Clinton  S:o!lari:  "The  First  Three,"  "The  Unreturning." 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons:  "A  Call  to  Arms,"  by  Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews;  "Ode  in  Memory 
of  the  American  Volunteers  Fallen  for  France,"  by  Alan  Seeger;  "  Mare  Liberum,"  by  Henry  van  Dyke. 

Marion  Couthouy  Smith:  "  The  Star,"  "  King  of  the  Belgians.*" 

Henry  van  Dyke:  "  Mare  Liberum." 

Willard  Wattles:  "  The  Family  of  Nations." 

George  Edward  Woodberry:  "Sonnets  written  in  the  Fall  of  1914." 


TO 

E.  B.  S. 
HELPMATE 


E  who  underrates  the  signi6cance 
of  our  literature,  prose  or  verse,  as 
both  the  expression  and  stimulant  of 
national  feeling,  as  of  import  in  the  past 
and  to  the  future  of  America,  and  there 
fore  of  the  world,  is  deficient  in  that  crit 
ical  insight  which  can  judge  even  of  its 
own  day  unwarped  by  personal  taste  or 
deference  to  public  impression.  He  shuts 
his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  at  times,  notably 
throughout  the  years  resulting  in  the  Civil 
War,  this  literature  has  been  a  "  force." — - 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  poetry  relating  to  American  history  falls  naturally  into  two  classes: 
that  written,  so  to  speak,"  from  the  inside,  on  the  spot,  and  that  written  from 
the  outside,  long  afterwards.  Of  the  first  class, "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner  " 
is  the  most  famous  example,  as  well  as  perhaps  the  best.  Even  at  this  distant 
day,  reading  it  with  a  knowledge  of  the  circumstances  which  produced  it,  it 
has  a  power  of  touching  the  heart  and  gripping  the  imagination  which  goes 
far  toward  proving  the  genuineness  of  its  art.  Of  the  second  class,  "Paul 
Revere's  Ride"  is  probably  the  most  widely  known,  though  Mr.  Longfel 
low's  own  "Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet"  is  a  better  poem. 

It  is  evident  that,  in  compiling  an  anthology  such  as  this,  different  stand 
ards  must  be  used  in  judging  these  two  classes.  The  first,  aside  from  any 
quality  as  poetry  which  it  may  have,  is  of  value  because  of  its  historical  or 
political  interest,  because  it  is  an  expression  and  an  interpretation  of  the 
hour  which  gave  it  birth.  With  it,  poetic  merit  is  not  the  first  consideration, 
which  is,  perhaps,  as  well.  Yet,  however  slight  their  merit  as  poetry  may  be, 
many  of  the  early  ballads  possess  an  admirable  energy,  directness,  and  apt 
ness  of  phrase,  and  there  is  about  them  a  childlike  simplicity  impossible  of 
reproduction  in  this  sophisticated  age  —  as  where  Stephen  Tilden,  in  his 
epitaph  on  Braddock,  requests  the  great  commanders  who  have  preceded 
that  unfortunate  soldier  to  the  grave  to 

"  Edge  close  and  give  him  room." 

With  the  retrospective  ballad,  on  the  other  hand,  poetic  merit  is  a  sine 
qua  non.  It  has  little  value  historically,  however  accurate  its  facts.  It  differs 
from  the  contemporary  ballad  in  the  same  way  that  the  "New  Canterbury 
Tales"  differ  from  Froissart;  or  as  the  "Idylls  of  the  King"  differ  from 
"  Le  Morte  Arthur."  It  is  less  authentic,  less  convincing,  less  vital.  It  may 
have  atmosphere,  but  there  is  no  infallible  way  of  telling  whether  the  at 
mosphere  is  right.  Unless  it  is  something  more,  then,  than  mere  metrical 
history,  the  modern  ballad  has  little  claim  to  consideration. 

These  are  the  two  principles  which  the  present  compiler  has  had  con 
stantly  in  mind.  Yet  the  second  principle  has  been  violated  more  than  once, 
since,  in  a  collection  such  as  this,  one  must  cut  one's  coat  according  to  the 
cloth;  or,  rather,  one  must  make  sure  that  one  is  decently  covered,  though 
the  covering  may  here  and  there  be  somewhat  inferior  in  quality.  So  it  has 
been  necessary,  in  order  to  keep  the  thread  of  history  unbroken,  to  admit 
some  strands  anything  but  silken ;  and  if  the  choice  has  sometimes  been  of 
ills,  rather  than  of  goods,  the  compiler  can  only  hope  that  he  chose  wisely. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 


The  most  difficult  and  trying  portion  of  his  task  has  been,  not  to  get  his 
material  together,  but  to  compress  it  into  reasonable  limits.  Especially  in 
the  colonial  period  was  the  temptation  great  to  include  more  early  Ameri 
can  verse.  Peter  Folger's  "A  Looking-Glass  for  the  Times,"  Benjamin 
Tompson's  "  New  England's  Crisis,"  Michael  Wigglesworth's  "  God's  Con 
troversy  with  New  England,"  the  "Sot- Weed  Factor,"  and  many  others, 
which  it  is  recalling  an  old  sorrow  to  name  here,  were  excluded  only  after 
long  and  bitter  debate.  No  doubt  other  exclusions  will  be  noticed  by 
nearly  every  reader  of  the  volume  —  and  it  may  interest  him  to  know  that 
the  material  gathered  together  would  have  made  four  such  books  as  this. 

The  thread  of  narrative  upon  which  the  poems  have  been  strung  together 
has  been  made  as  slight  as  possible,  just  strong  enough  to  carry  the  reader 
understand! ngly  from  one  poem  to  the  next.  The  notes,  too,  have  been 
limited  to  the  explanation  of  such  allusions  as  are  not  likely  to  be  found  in 
the  ordinary  works  of  reference,  with  here  and  there  an  account  of  the 
circumstances  which  caused  the  lines  to  be  written,  or  an  indication  of 
source,  where  the  source  is  unusual.  Every  available  source  has  been  drawn 
upon  —  the  works  of  all  the  better  known  and  many  of  the  minor  American 
and  English  poets,  anthologies,  newspaper  collections,  magazines,  collec 
tions  of  Americana  and  especially  of  broadsides  —  in  a  word,  American  and 
English  poetry  generally. 

In  this  connection,  the  compiler  wishes  to  make  grateful  acknowledgment 
of  the  assistance  he  has  received  on  every  hand,  especially  from  Mr.  Herbert 
Putnam  and  Miss  Margaret  McGuffey,  of  the  Library  of  Congress;  Mr. 
N.  D.  C.  Hodges,  librarian  of  the  Cincinnati ,  Ohio,  Public  Library ;  Mr.  C.  B . 
Galbreath,  librarian  of  the  Ohio  State  Library;  Mr.  Charles  F.  Lummis, 
librarian  of  the  Los  Angeles,  California,  Public  Library;  Dr.  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  Mr.  William  Henry  Venable,  Mr.  Isaac  R.  Pennypacker,  Mr. 
Arthur  Guiterman,  and  Mr.  Wallace  Rice.  He  might  add  that  it  is  a  matter 
of  deep  personal  gratification  to  him  that  in  no  instance  has  any  author 
refused  to  permit  the  use  of  his  work  in  this  collection.  On  the  contrary, 
many  of  them  have  been  most  helpful  in  suggestions. 

A  special  effort  has  been  made  to  secure  accuracy  of  text,  —  no  light  task, 
especially  with  the  early  ballads.  Where  the  text  varied,  as  was  often  the 
case,  that  has  been  followed  which  seemed  to  have  the  greater  authority, 
except  that  obvious  misprints  have  been  corrected.  In  this,  the  compiler  has 
had  the  cooperation  of  The  Riverside  Press,  and  has  had  frequent  occasion 
to  admire  the  care  and  knowledge  of  the  corrector  and  his  assistants. 

B.  E.  S. 

CHILLICOTHE,  OHIO,  July  23,  1908. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PART   I 

THE    COLONIAL   PERIOD 

AMERICA,  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe 2 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Discovery  of  America 

THE  STORY  OF  VINLAND,  Sidney  Lanier 3 

THE  NORSEMEN,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 4 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 6 

PROPHECY,  Luigi  Pulci 7 

THE  INSPIRATION,  James  Montgomery 8 

COLUMBUS,  Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney  ". 9 

COLUMBUS  TO  FERDINAND,  Philip  Freneau       9 

COLUMBUS  AT  THE  CONVENT,  John  T.  Trowbridge 10 

THE  FINAL  STRUGGLE,  Louis  James  Block 11 

STEER,  BOLD  MARINER,  ON,  Friedrich  von  Schiller 12 

THE  TRIUMPH,  Sidney  Lanier 12 

COLUMBUS,  Joaquin  Miller Jj. 

THE  THANKSGIVING  FOR  AMERICA,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 15 

COLUMBUS  IN  CHAINS,  Philip  Freneau 17 

COLUMBUS  DYING,  Edna  Dean  Proctor 18 

COLUMBUS,  Edward  Everett  Hale 18 

COLUMBUS  AND  THE  MAYFLOWER,  Lord  Hough  ton 18 

CHAPTER  II 

In  the  Wake  of  Columbus 

THE  FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  JOHN  CABOT,  Unknown 19 

THE  LEGEND  OF  WAUKULLA,  Hezekiah  Butterworth T5" 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 21 

PONCE  DE  LEON,  Edith  M.  Thomas 22 

BALBOA,  Nora  Perry 23 

WITH  CORTEZ  IN  MEXICO,  W.  W.  Campbell 24 

THE  LUST  OF  GOLD,  James  Montgomery 24 

VERAZZANO,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 25 

ORTIZ,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 26 

THE  FALL  OF  MAUBILA,  Thomas  Dunn  English 27 

QuivfRA,  Arthur  Guiterman 31 

NOREMBEGA,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 32 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 34 

THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SAILORS,  Wallace  Rice 34 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Settlement  of  Virginia 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  CRO-A-TXN,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 36 

JOHN  SMITH'S  APPROACH  TO  JAMESTOWN,  James  Barron  Hope     -r— r» 38 

POCAHONTAS,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 38 

POCAHONTAS,  George  Pope  Morris 39 


xiv  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

BERMUDAS,  Andrew  Marvell 39 

NEWES  FROM  VIRGINIA,  Richard  Rich 40 

To  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE,  Michael  Dray  ton 42 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  POCAHONTAS,  Mrs.  M.  M.  Webster 43 

THE  LAST  MEETING  OF  POCAHONTAS  AND  THE  GREAT  CAPTAIN,  Margaret  Junkin 

Preston 43 

THE  BURNING  OF  JAMESTOWN,  Thomas  Dunn  English 44 

BACON'S  EPITAPH,  Unknown 45 

ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN,  James  Kirke  Paulding 46 

THE  DOWNFALL  OF  PIRACY,  Benjamin  Franklin       48  >^ 

FROM  POTOMAC  TO  MERRIMAC,  Edward  Everett  Hale 49 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Dutch  at  New  Amsterdam 

HENRY  HUDSON'S  QUEST,  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson 50 

THE  DEATH  OF  COLMAN,  Thomas  Frost 50 

ADRIAN  BLOCK'S  SONG,  Edward  Everett  Hale 51 

THE  PRAISE  OF  NEW  NETHERLAND,  Jacob  Steendam 52 

THE  COMPLAINT  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM,  Jacob  Steendam 53 

PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 54 

CHAPTER  V 

The  Settlement  of  New  England 

THE  WORD  OF  GOD  TO  LEYDEN  CAME,  Jeremiah  Eames  Rankin 56 

SONG  OF  THE  PILGRIMS,  Thomas  Cogswell  Upham 57 

LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS,  Felicia  Hemans 57 

THE  FIRST  PROCLAMATION  OF  MILES  STANDISH,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston     ....  58 

THE  MAYFLOWER,  Erastus  Wolcott  Ellsworth 59 

THE  PEACE  MESSAGE,  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson       60 

THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 60 

THE  WAR-TOKEN,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 61 

FIVE  KERNELS  OF  CORN,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 62 

THE  EXPEDITION  TO  WESSAGUSSET,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 63 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  ANNOYANCES,  Unknown 65 1~ 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS,  William  Wordsworth       66 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS,  John  Pierpont 66 

THE  THANKSGIVING  IN  BOSTON  HARBOR,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 67 

THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING,  Clinton  Scollard 68 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  GROWTH,  William  Bradford       69^ 

THE  ASSAULT  ON  THE  FORTRESS,  Timothy  Dwight 70 

DEATH  SONG,  Alonzo  I^ewis 70 

OUR  COUNTRY,  Julia  Ward  Howe •          ....  71 

CHAPTER  VI 

Religious  Persecutions  in  New  England 

PROLOGUE,  from  "  John  Endicott."  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 71 

ROGER  WILLIAMS,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 72 

GOD  MAKES  A  PATH,  Roger  Williams 72^ 

CANONICUS  AND  ROGER  WILLIAMS,  Unknown       , 73 

ANNE  HUTCHINSON'S  EXILE,  Edward  Everett  Hale 73 

JOHN  UNDERBILL,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 74 

THE  PROCLAMATION,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 76 

CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 77 

THE  KING'S  MISSIVE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier .80 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  xv 

CHAPTER  VII 

King  Philip's  War  and  the  Witchcraft  Delusion 

THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLOODY  BROOK,  Edward  Everett  Hale     ....  82 

THE  GREAT  SWAMP  FIGHT,  Caroline  Hazard 83 

ON  A  FORTIFICATION  AT  BOSTON  BEGUN  BY  WOMEN,  Benjamin  Tompson 85 1~ 

THE  SUDBURY  FIGHT,  Wallace  Rice 85 

KING  PHILIP'S  LAST  STAND,  Clinton  Scollard 88 

PROLOGUE,  from  "  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,"  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .    .  88 

SALEM,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 89 

THE  DEATH  OF  GOODY  NURSE,  Rose  Terry  Cooke 90 

A  SALEM  WITCH,  Ednah  Proctor  Clarke 91 

THE  TRIAL,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 94 

GILES  COREY,  Unknown 96^— 

MISTRESS  HALE  OF  BEVERLY,  Lucy  Larcom 97 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Struggle  for  the  Continent 

ST.  JOHN,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 99 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LA  PRAIRIE,  William  Douw  Schuyler-Lighthall 101 

THE  SACK  OF  DEERFIELD,  Thomas  Dunn  English 102 

PENTUCKET,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 105 

LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT,  Unknown 106 1— 

LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT,  Unknown 108. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOVELL'S  POND,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 109 

LOUISBURG,  Unknown 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 110' 

THE  BRITISH  LYON  ROUSED,  Stephen  Tilden Ill1-" 

THE  SONG  OF  BRADDOCK'S  MEN,  Unknown 

BRADDOCK'S  FATE,  Stephen  Tilden 

NED  BRADDOCK,  John  Williamson  Palmer    .     .         114' 

ODE  TO  THE  INHABITANTS  OF  PENNSYLVANIA,  Unknown 

THE  EMBARKATION,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 115- 

ON  THE  DEFEAT  AT  TICONDESOGA  OR  CARILONG,  Unknown 117  l^~ 

ON  THE  LATE  SUCCESSFUL  EXPEDITION  AGAINST  LOUISBOURG,  Francis  Hopkinson   .    .  118t-~ 

FORT  DUQUESNE,  Florus  B.  Plimpton 119 

HOT  STUFF,  Edward  Botwood 121a — 

How  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND,  James  Wolfe 121  L- 

BRAVE  WOLFE,  Unknown       122 1^ 

THE  DEATH  OF  WOLFE,  Unknown 123  ^ 

THE  CAPTIVE'S  HYMN,  Edna  Dean  Proctor 123 

A  PROPHECY,  Arthur  Lee 


PART  II 

THE   REVOLUTION 

FLAWLESS  HIS  HEABT,  James  Russell  Lowell 128 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Coming  of  Discontent 

THE  VIRGINIA  SONG,  Unknown .    .    .  19.9V 

THE  WORLD  TURNED  UPSIDE  DOWN,  Unknown 130  ^~ 

A  SONG,  Unknown ISO  I— 


xvi  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

THE  LIBERTY  POLE,  Unknown       

THE  BRITISH  GRENADIER,  Unknown 

CRISPUS  ATTUCKS,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly       132 

UNHAPPY  BOSTON,  Paul  Revere 134[/~ 

ALAMANCE,  Seymour  W.  Whiting 135 

A  NEW  SONG  CALLED  THE  GASPEE,  Unknown       135  i-~ 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 136 

A  NEW  SONG,  Unknown 137*-"" 

How  WE  BECAME  A  NATION,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 138 

A  PROCLAMATION,  Unknown       1381" 

THE  BLASTED  HERB,  Mesech  Weare 139k- 

EPIGRAM,  Unknown 140  U- 

THE  DAUGHTER'S  REBELLION,  Francis  Hopkinson    ....         140  t- 

ON  THE  SNAKE  DEPICTED  AT  THE  HEAD  OF  SOME  AMERICAN  NEWSPAPERS,  Unknown  140  *-r 

FREE  AMERICA,  Joseph  Warren 140  >• 

LIBERTY  TREE,  Thomas  Paine 141  > 

THE  MOTHER  COUNTRY,  Benjamin  Franklin 142 

PENNSYLVANIA  SONG,  Unknown 142 

MARYLAND  RESOLVES,  Unknown 142 v 

MASSACHUSETTS  SONG  OF  LIBERTY,  Mercy  Warren       143 

EPIGRAM,  Unknown 144- 

To  THE  BOSTON  WOMEN,  Unknown 144  ^ 

PROPHECY,  Gulian  Verplanck 144 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Bursting  of  the  Storm 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 144 

WHAT  's  IN  A  NAME,  Helen  F.  More 146 

LEXINGTON,  Sidney  Lanier 146 

LEXINGTON,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 147 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  CHEVY  CHASE,  Edward  Everett  Hale 148 

THE  KING'S  OWN  REGULARS,  Unknown 150  u 

MORGAN  STANWOOD,  Hiram  Rich 151 

THE  MINUTE-MEN  OF  NORTHBORO',  Wallace  Rice 152 

LEXINGTON,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier       153 

THE  RISING,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 154 

THE  PRIZE  OF  THE  MARGARETTA,  Will  Carleton 155 

THE  MECKLENBURG  DECLARATION,  William  C.  Elam 156 

A  SONG,  Unknown 157U- 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Colonists  take  the  Offensive 

THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS,  William  Cullen  Bryant 157 

THE  SURPRISE  AT  TICONDEROGA,  Mary  A.  P.  Stansbury       157 

THE  YANKEE'S  RETURN  FROM  CAMP,  Edward  Bangs 159'. 

TOM  GAGE'S  PROCLAMATION,  Unknown 1601 

THE  EVE  OF  BUNKER  HILL,  Clinton  Scollard 161 

WARREN'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS,  John  Pierpont  . 161 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BUNKER  HILL,  Edward  Everett  Hale 162 

BUNKER  HILL,  George  H.  Calvert       162 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes     .     .     .     .163 

THE  DEATH  OF  WARREN,  Epes  Sargent 166 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL,  Unknown       167 

THE  NEW-CCME  CHIEF,  James  Russell  Lowell •  •     •  168 

THE  TRIP  TO  CAMBRIDGE,  Unknown 169  K 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS  xvii 

WAR  AND  WASHINGTON,  Jonathan  Mitchell  Sewall 170 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  OF  BRISTOL,  Unknown 171 

MONTGOMERY  AT  QUEBEC,  Clinton  Scollard 171 

A  SONG,  Unknown 172 

A  POEM  CONTAINING  SOME  REMARKS  ON  THE  PRESENT  WAR,  Unknown 173 

MUGFORD'S  VICTORY,  John  White  Chadwick 174 

OFF  FROM  BOSTON,  Unknown 176 

CHAPTER  IV 

Independence 

EMANCIPATION  FROM  BRITISH  DEPENDENCE,  Philip  Freneau 176 

RODNEY'S  RIDE,  Unknown 177 

AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE,  Francis  Hopkinson 178 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  John  Pierpont 179 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY,  Royall  Tyler 179 

ON  INDEPENDENCE,  Jonathan  Mitchell  Sewall 179 

THE  AMERICAN  PATRIOT'S  PRAYER,  Unknown 180 

COLUMBIA,  Timothy  Dwight 180 

CHAFFER  V 

The  First  Campaign 

THE  BOASTING  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER,  Clinton  Scollard 181 

A  NEW  WAR  SONG  BY  SIR  PETER  PARKER,  Unknown 182 

THE  MARYLAND  BATTALION,  John  Williamson  Palmer 183 

HAARLEM  HEIGHTS,  Arthur  Guitennan 183 

NATHAN  HALE,  Unknown 185 

NATHAN  HALE,  Francis  Miles  Finch 186 

THE  BALLAD  OF  SWEET  P,  Virginia  Woodward  Cloud 186 

ACROSS  THE  DELAWARE,  Will  Carleton 188 

THE  BATTLE  OF  TRENTON,  Unknown 188 

TRENTON  AND  PRINCETON,  Unknown 188 

ASSUNPINK  AND  PRINCETON,  Thomas  Dunn  English 189 

SEVENTY-SIX,  William  Cullen  Bryant       191 

BETSY'S  BATTLE  FLAG,  Minna  Irving 191 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG,  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 192 

CHAPTER  VI 

"  The  Fate  of  Sir  Jack  Brag  " 

THE  RIFLEMAN'S  SONG  AT  BENNINGTON,  Unknown 193 

THE  MARCHING  SONG  OF  ST ARK'S  MEN,  Edward  Everett  Hale 193 

PARSON  ALLEN'S  RIDE,  Wallace  Bruce 194 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON,  Thomas  P.  Rodman 195 

BENNINGTON,  W.  H.  Babcock 196 

THE  BATTLE  OF  ORISKANY,  Charles  D.  Helmer 198 

SAINT  LEGER,  Clinton  Scollard 199 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  SIR  JACK  BRAG,  Unknown 200 

ARNOLD  AT  STILLWATER,  Thomas  Dunn  English 200 

THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  BURGOYNE,  Unknown 202 

SARATOGA'S  SONG,  Unknown 202 

CHAPTER  VII 

The  Second  Stage 

LORD  NORTH'S  RECANTATION,  Unknown 204 

A  NEW  BALLAD,  Unknown 205 


xviii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

GENERAL  HOWE'S  LETTER,  Unknown 205 

CARMEN  BELLICOSUM,  Guy  Humphreys  McMaster 206 

VALLEY  FORGE,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 207 

BRITISH  VALOR  DISPLAYED;  OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS,  Francis  Hopkinson      .     .     .208 

THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL,  Will  Carleton 209 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MONMOUTH,  Unknown 210 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MONMOUTH,  Thomas  Dunn  English 211 

MOLLY  PITCHER,  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood 213 

MOLLY  PITCHER,  Laura  E.  Richards 213 

YANKEE  DOODLE'S  EXPEDITION  TO  RHODE  ISLAND,  Unknown 214 

RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE,  Nora  Perry 215 

BETTY  ZANE,  Thomas  Dunn  English       216 

THE  WYOMING  MASSACRE,  Uriah  Terry 217 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  War  on  the  Water 

THE  CBUISE  OF  THE  FAIR  AMERICAN,  Unknown 219 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CAPTAIN  NICHOLAS  BIDDLE,  Philip  Freneau 220 

THE  YANKEE  PRIVATEER,  Arthur  Hale 221 

PAUL  JONES,  Unknown 222 

THE  YANKEE  MAN-OF-WAR,  Unknown 223 

PAUL  JONES — A  NEW  SONG,  Unknown 224 

PAUL  JONES,  Unknown 224 

THE  BONHOMME  RICHARD  AND  SERAPIS,  Philip  Freneau 225 

BARNEY'S  INVITATION,  Philip  Freneau 226 

SONG  ON  CAPTAIN  BARNEY'S  VICTORY,  Philip  Freneau 227 

THE  SOUTH  CAROLINA,  Unknown       228 

CHAPTER  IX 

New  York  and  the  "Neutral  Ground  " 

SIR  HENRY  CLINTON'S  INVITATION  TO  THE  REFUGEES,  Philip  Freneau 229 

THE  STORMING  OF  STONY  POINT,  Arthur  Guiterman 230 

WAYNE  AT  STONY  POINT,  Clinton  Scollard 230 

AARON  BURR'S  WOOING,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman « 231 

THE  MODERN  JONAS,  Unknown 232 

CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD,  Bret  Harte 232 

THE  COW-CHACE,  John  Andre 233 

BRAVE  PAULDING  AND  THE  SPY,  Unknown 237 

ARNOLD  THE  VILE  TRAITOR,  Unknown 238 

EPIGRAM,  Unknown 238 

ANDRE'S  REQUEST  TO  WASHINGTON,  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 238 

ANDRE,  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates 239 

SERGEANT  CHAMPE,  Unknown 239 

A  NEW  SONG,  Joseph  Stansbury 240 

THE  LORDS  OF  THE  MAIN,  Joseph  Stansbury 241 

THE  ROYAL  ADVENTURER,  Philip  Freneau 241 

THE  DESCENT  ON  MIDDLESEX,  Peter  St.  John 242 

CHAPTER  X 

The  War  in  the  South 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow     .    .  245 

ABOUT  SAVANNAH,  Unknown 245 

A  SONG  ABOUT  CHARLESTON,  Unknown       246 

THE  SWAMP  Fox,  William  Gilnaore  Simms 247 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  six 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN.  William  Cullen  Bryant 248 

MACDONALD'S  RAID,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 248 

SUMTER'S  BAND,  J.  W.  Simmons 250 

THE  BATTLE  OF  KING'S  MOUNTAIN,  Unknown 251 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  COWPENS,  Thomas  Dunn  English 252 

THE  BATTLE  OF  EUTAW,  William  Gilmore  Simms 254 

EUTAW  SPRINGS,  Philip  Freneau 255 

THE  DANCE,  Unknown 256 

CORNWALLIS'S  SURRENDER,  Unknown 256 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  CORNWALLIS,  Unknown 257 

NEWS  FROM  YORKTOWN,  Lewis  Worth ington  Smith 257 

AN  ANCIENT  PROPHECY,  Philip  Freneau 258 

CHAPTER  XI 
Peace 

ON  SIR  HENRY  CLINTON'S  RECALL,  Unknown 259 

ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  BRITISH  FROM  CHARLESTON,  Philip  Freneuu      ....  260 

ON  THE  BRITISH  KING'S  SPEECH,  Philip  Freneau 261 

ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782,  Alfred  Tennyson 262 

ON  DISBANDING  THE  ARMY,  David  Humphreys 262 

EVACUATION  OF  NEW  YORK  BY  THE  BRITISH,  Unknown 262 

OCCASIONED  BY  GENERAL  WASHINGTON'S  ARRIVAL  IN  PHILADELPHIA,  ON  HIS  WAY  TO 

HIS  RESIDENCE  IN  VIRGINIA,  Philip  Freneau 263 

THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIER'S  HYMN,  Unknown 264 

THANKSGIVING  HYMN,  Unknown 264 

LAND  OF  THE  WILFUL  GOSPEL,  Sidney  Lanier 265 


PART  III 

THE   PERIOD   OF  GROWTH 

"On  MOTHER  OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE,"  William  Cullen  Bryant 268 

CHAPTER  I 

The  New  Nation 

A  RADICAL  SONG  OF  1786,  St.  John  Honeywood 269 

THE  FEDERAL  CONVENTION,  Unknown 269 

To  THE  FEDERAL  CONVENTION,  Timothy  Dwight 270 

THE  NEW  ROOF,  Francis  Hopkinson       270 

CONVENTION  SONG,  Unknown 271 

THE  FEDERAL  CONSTITUTION,  William  Milns 272 

THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  CONGRESS,  Joel  Barlow 273 

WASHINGTON,  James  Jeffrey  Roche     .    .    .    „ 274 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 274 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  Philip  Freneau 275 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  John  Hall  Ingham 275 

WASHINGTON,  Lord  Byron 276 

ADAMS  AND  LIBERTY,  Robert  Treat  Paine 276 

HAIL  COLUMBIA,  Joseph  Hopkinson 277 

YE  SONS  OF  COLUMBIA,  Thomas  Green  Fessenden 278 

TRUXTON'S  VICTORY,  Unknown .  279 

THE  CONSTELLATION  AND  THE  INSURGENTE,  Unknown 280 

WASHINGTON'S  MONUMENT,  Unknown '  . 280 


xx  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

How  WE  BUHNED  THE  PHILADELPHIA,  Barrett  Eastman 281 

REUBEN  JAMES,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 282 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 283 

A  PLEA  FOR  FLOOD  IRESON,  Charles  Timothy  Brooks 284 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Second  War  with  England 

THE  TIMES,  Unknown 285 

REPARATION  OR  WAR,  Unknown 286 

TERRAPIN  WAR,  Unknown 286 

FAREWELL,  PEACE,  Unknown 287 

COME,  YE  LADS,  WHO  WISH  TO  SHINE,  Unknown 287 

HULL'S  SURRENDER,  Unknown 287 

THE  CONSTITUTION  AND  THE  GUERRIERE,  Unknown 288 

HALIFAX  STATION,  Unknown 289 

ON  THE  CAPTURE  OF  THE  GUERRIERE,  Philip  Freneau 290 

FiRSTFRurrs  IN  1812,  Wallace  Rice 291 

THE  BATTLE  OF  QUEENSTOWN,  William  Banker,  Jr 292 

THE  WASP'S  FROLIC,  Unknown 293 

THE  UNITED  STATES  AND  MACEDONIAN,  Unknown 293 

THE  UNITED  STATES  AND  MACEDONIAN,  Unknown 294 

JACK  CREAMER,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 295 

YANKEE  THUNDERS,  Unknown       296 

THE  GENERAL  ARMSTRONG,  Unknown 296 

CAPTURE  OF  LITTLE  YORK,  Unknown 298 

THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  PIKE,  Laughton  Osborn 299 

OLD  FORT  MEIGS,  Unknown 300 

THE  SHANNON  AND  THE  CHESAPEAKE,  Thomas  Tracy  Bouve 300 

CHESAPEAKE  AND  SHANNON,  Unknown 301 

DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY,  Wallace  Rice 302 

ENTERPRISE  AND  BOXER,  Unknown 302 

PERRY'S  VICTORY,  Unknown 303 

THE  BATTLE  OF  ERIE,  Unknown 303 

PERRY'S  VICTORY — A  SONG,  Unknown ^    .  305 

THE  FALL  OF  TECUMSEH,  Unknown v  .  305 

THE  LEGEND  OF  WALBACH  TOWER,  George  Houghton 306 

THE  BATTLE  OF  VALPARAISO,  Unknown 307 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BRIDGEWATER,  Unknown 308 

THE  HERO  OF  BRIDGEWATER,  Charles  L.  S.  Jones 309 

THE  BATTLE  OF  STONINGTON,  Philip  Freneau 309 

THE  OCEAN-FIGHT,  Unknown 310 

THE  LOST  WAR-SLOOP,  Edna  Dean  Proctor 311 

ON  THE  BRITISH  INVASION,  Philip  Freneau 312 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN,  Philip  Freneau 312 

THE  BATTLE  OF  PLATTSBURG  BAY,  Clinton  Scollard 313 

THE  BATTLE  OF  PLATTSBURG,  Unknown 314 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BALTIMORE,  Unknown       315 

FORT  McHENRY,  Unknown 316 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER,  Francis  Scott  Key 317 

YE  PARLIAMENT  OF  ENGLAND.  Unknown • 318 

THE  BOWER  OF  PEACE,  Robert  Southey 318 

REID  AT  FAYAL,  John  Williamson  Palmer 319 

THE  FIGHT  OF  THE  ARMSTRONG  PRIVATEER,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 319 

THE  ARMSTRONG  AT  FAYAL,  Wallace  Rice 321 

FORT  BOWYER,  Charles  L.  S.  Jones 323 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS,  Thomas  Dunn  English 323 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xxi 

JACKSON  AT  NEW  ORLEANS,  Wallace  Rice 325 

To  THE  DEFENDERS  OF  NEW  ORLEANS,  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 326 

THE  HUNTERS  OF  KENTUCKY,  Unknown          326 

THE  CONSTITUTION'S  LAST  FIGHT,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 327 

SEA  AND  LAND  VICTORIES,  Unknown 328 

ODE  TO  PEACE,  Unknown 329 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Went 

THE  SETTLER,  Alfred  B.  Street 329 

THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  WEST,  William  Davis  Gallagher 330 

ON  THE  EMIGRATION  TO  AMERICA,  Philip  Freneau 331 

JOHN  FILSON,  William  Henry  Venable 331 

SAINCLAIRE'S  DEFEAT,  Unknown 332 

JOHNNY  APPLESEED,  William  Henry  Venable 334 

THE  FOUNDERS  OF  OHIO,  William  Henry  Venable 335 

BLENNERHASSETT'S  ISLAND,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 335 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MUSKINGUM,  William  Harrison  Saft'ord 337 

To  AARON  BURR,  UNDER  TRIAL  FOR  HIGH  TREASON,  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton     .     .  338 

THE  BATTLE  OF  TIPPECANOE,  Unknown 339 

THE  TOMB  OF  THE  BRAVE,  Joseph  Hutton 339 

SA-CA-GA-WE-A,  Edna  Dean  Proctor 340 

ON  THE  DISCOVERIES  OF  CAPTAIN  LEWIS,  Joel  Barlow 341 

WHITMAN'S  RIDE  FOR  OREGON,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 342 

DISCOVERY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY,  Richard  Edward  White 343 

JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT,  Charles  F.  Lummis 345 

"THE  DAYS  OF  TORTY-NINE,"  Unknown 345 

THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL,  Richard  Burton 346 

CALIFORNIA,  Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney 346 

CHAPTER  IV 

Through  Five  Administrations 

THEODOSIA  BURR,  John  Williamson  Palmer 346 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COMMODORE  OLIVER  H.  PERRY,  John  G.  C.  Brainard     ....  347 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE,  Fitz-Greene  Halleck 348 

ON  LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,  John  Pierpont    .  348 

LA  FAYETTE,  Dolly  Madison 349 

THE  DEATH  OF  JEFFERSON,  Hezekiah  Butterworth       349 

OLD  IRONSIDES,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 351 

CONCORD  HYMN,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 351 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS,  Henry  WTadsworth  Longfellow 351 

OLD  TIPPECANOE,  Unknown 353 

THE  DEATH  OF  HARRISON,  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 353 

CHAPTER  V 

The  War  with  Mexico 

THE  VALOR  OF  BEN  MILAM,  Clinton  Scollard 854 

BEN  MILAM,  William  H.  Wharton       355 

THE  MEN  OF  THE  ALAMO,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 355 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE  ALAMO,  Joaquin  Miller 357 

THE  FIGHT  AT  SAN  JACINTO,  John  Williamson  Palmer 357 

SONG  OF  TEXAS,  William  Henry  Cuyler  Hosmer 358 

TEXAS,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 053 


xxii  TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 

MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  SPEAKS,  James  Russell  Lowell 360 

THE  GUNS  IN  THE  GRASS,  Thomas  Frost 361 

Rio  BRAVO — A  MEXICAN  LAMENT,  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 362 

To  ARMS,  Park  Benjamin 363 

MONTEREY,  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 363 

VICTOR  GALBRAITH,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 364 

BUENA  VISTA,  Albert  Pike 364 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 366 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD,  Theodore  O'Hara 368 

WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS,  James  Russell  Lowell 369 

BATTLE  OF  THE  KING'S  MILL,  Thomas  Dunn  English 370 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CHAPULTEPEC,  William  Haines  Lytle 371 

ILLUMINATION  FOR  VICTORIES  IN  MEXICO,  Grace  Greenwood 371 

THE  CRISIS,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 372 

THE  VOLUNTEERS,  William  Haines  Lytle 374 

CHAPTER  VI 

Fourteen  Years  of  Peace 

THE  SHIP  CANAL  FROM  THE  ATLANTIC  TO  THE  PACIFIC,  Francis  Lieber 374 

THE  WTAR  SHIP  OF  PEACE,  Samuel  Lover 37,5 

ON  THE  DEFEAT  OF  HENRY  CLAY,  William  Wilberforce  Lord 376 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OSSOLI  AND  HIS  WIFE,  MARGARET  FULLER,  Walter  Savage 

Landor 376 

THE  LAST  APPENDIX  TO  "YANKEE  DOODLE,"  Unknown 376 

DANIEL  WEBSTER,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes       377 

THE  FLAG,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 378 

KANE,  Fitz-James  O'Brien 379 

HERNDON,  S.  Weir  Mitchell 3S-0 

BLOOD  is  THICKER  THAN  WATER,  Wallace  Rice •    .     .  380 

BARON  RENFREW'S  BALL,  Charles  Graham  Halpine 382 

PART  IV 

THE   CIVIL   WAR 

BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC,  Julia  Ward  Howe 384 

CHAPTER  I 

,  The  Slavery  Question 

To  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 385 

CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 385 

THE  DEBATE  IN  THE  SENNIT,  James  Russell  Lowell 386 

ICHABOD,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 388 

THE  KIDNAPPING  OF  SIMS,  John  Pierpont       388 

THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 389 

BURIAL  OF  BARBER,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 389 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  LAWRENCE,  Richard  Realf       390 

THE  FIGHT  OVER  THE  BODY  OF  KEITT,  Unknown 391 

LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 392 

How  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 393 

/  THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTOWN,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 395 

/  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier ?96 

GLORY  HALLELUJAH!  OR  JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY,  Charles  Sprague  Hall 397 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xxiii 

JOHN  BROWN,  Edna  Dean  Proctor 397 

JOHN  BROWN:  A  PARADOX,  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 397 

LECOMPTON'S  BLACK  BRIGADE,  Charles  Graham  Halpine       398 

LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE,  Edwin  Markham 399 

BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .    .    .  400 

JEFFERSON  D.,  H.  S.  Cornwell 401 

THE  OLD  COVE,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 401 

A  SPOOL  OF  THREAD,  Sophie  E.  Eastman 402 

GOD  SAVE  OUR  PRESIDENT,  Francis  deHaes  Janvier 403 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Gauntlet 

BOB  ANDERSON,  MY  BEAU,  Unknown 403 

ON  FORT  SUMTER,  Unknown 403 

SUMTER,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 404 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MORRIS'  ISLAND,  Unknown 404 

SUMTER  —  A  BALLAD  OF  1861,  Unknown 405 

THE  FIGHT  AT  SUMTER,  Unknown 407 

SUMTER,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 408 

THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND,  Theodore  Tilton       408 

•  MEN  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  WEST,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 409 

OUT  AND  FIGHT,  Charles  Godfrey  Leland 409 

No  MORE  WORDS,  Franklin  Lushington 410 

./OuR  COUNTRY'S  CALL,  William  Cullen  Bryant 410 

DIXIE,  Albert  Pike 411 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS,  Henry  Timrod .411 

"Ws  CONQUER  OR  DIE,"  James  Pierpont 414 

"CALL  ALL,"  Unknown 412 

THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG,  Annie  Chambers  Ketchum 413 

I  GIVE  MY  SOLDIER  BOY  A  BLADE,  Unknown 413 

CHAPTER  III 

The  North  gets  its  Lesson 

THE  NINETEENTH  OF  APRIL,  Lucy  Larcom     .  ' 414 

THROUGH  BALTIMORE,  Bayard  Taylor 41 1 

~^MY  MARYLAND,  James  Ryder  Randall 415 

ELLSWORTH,  Unknown       ' 416 

COLONEL  ELLSWORTH,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 416 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  "JACKSON,"  Unknown 417 

THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY,  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 417 

BETHEL,  A.  J.  H.  Duganne 417 

DIRGE,  Thomas  William  Parsons 419 

WAIT  FOR  THE  WAGON,  Unknown 419 

UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREVILLE,  George  Henry  Boker 420 

MANASSAS,  Catherine  M.  Warfield 423 

A  BATTLE  BALLAD,  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 424 

THE  RUN  FROM  MANASSAS  JUNCTION,  Unknown 425 

ON  TO  RICHMOND,  John  R.  Thompson 426 

CAST  DOWN,  BUT  NOT  DESTROYED,  Unknown 427 

SHOP  AND  FREEDOM,  Unknown 428 

THE  C.  S.  A.  COMMISSIONERS,  Unknown 428 

DEATH  OF  THE  LINCOLN  DESPOTISM,  Unknown        429 

JONATHAN  TO  JOHN,  James  Russell  Lowell 430 

A  NEW  SONG  TO  AN  OLD  TUNE,  Unknown 432 


xxiv  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Grand  Army  of  the  Potomac 

CIVIL  WAB,  Charles  Dawson  Shanly        ' 432 

THE  PICKET-GUARD,  Ethel  Lynn  Beers 433 

TARDY  GEORGE,  Unknown 433 

How  MCCLELLAN  TOOK  MANAssAS,  Unknown 434 

WANTED  —  A  MAN,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 435 

THE  GALLANT  FIGHTING  "JoE,"  James  Stevenson 436 

KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 437 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANK,  John  R.  Thompson 437 

THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD,  Thomas  Dunn  English 438 

DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 439 

MALVERN  HILL,  Herman  Melville 439 

A  MESSAGE,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps 440 

THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE,  James  Sloan  Gibbons 440 

CEDAR  MOUNTAIN,  Annie  Fields 441 

"OuR  LEFT,"  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 441 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER,  George  Henry  Boker 442 

THE  REVEILLE,  Bret  Harte 442 

/BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 443 

^BARBARA  FRIETCHIE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 444 

MARTHY  VIRGINIA'S  HAND,  George  Parsons  Lathrop 445 

THE  VICTOR  OF  ANTIETAM,  Herman  Melville 445 

THE  CROSSING  AT  FREDERICKSBURG,  George  Henry  Boker 446 

AT  FREDERICKSBURG,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 447 

FREDERICKSBURG,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 449 

BY  THE  POTOMAC,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 449 

THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHRODD,  James  Russell  Lowell 450 

CHAPTER  V 

The  War  in  the  West 

THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 451 

THE  DEATH  OF  LYON,  Henry  Peterson 453 

ZAGONYI,  George  Henry  Boker 453 

BATTLE  OF  SOMERSET,  Cornelius  C.  Cullen 454 

ZOLLICOFFER,  Henry  Lynden  Flash 454 

BOY  BRITTAN,  Forceythe  Willson 455 

ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON,  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood 456 

ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON,  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 457 

BEAUREGARD,  Mrs.  C.  A.  Warfield 457 

THE  EAGLE  OF  CORINTH,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 458 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MURFREESBORO,  Kinahan  Cornwallis 459 

LITTLE  GIFFEN,  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 460 

THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier       460 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  Coast  and  the  River 

AT  PORT  ROYAL,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 461 

READY,  Phoebe  Cary 461 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGIMENT.  Clinton  Scollard 462 

THE  TURTLE,  Unknown 462 

THE  ATTACK,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  .     , 463 

i/  THE  CUMBERLAND,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 464 

ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND,  George  Henry  Boker 464 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  xxv 

THE  CUMBERLAND,  Herman  Melville 466 

How  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT  DOWN,  S.  Weir  Mitchell 466 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  MONITOR,  George  Henry  Boker 467 

THE  SINKING  OF  THE  MERRIMACK,  Lucy  Larcom .    .    .  468 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 468 

THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS,  George  Henry  Boker 472 

THE  VARUNA,  George  Henry  Boker 474 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  NEW  ORLEANS,  Marion  Manville 475 

MUMFORD,  Ina  M.  Porter 476 

BUTLER'S  PROCLAMATION,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 476 

CHAPTER  VII 

Emancipation 

To  JOHN  C.  FREMONT,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 477 

ASTHMA  AT  THE  CAPITOL,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 478 

BOSTON  HYMN,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 478 

THE  PROCLAMATION,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 480 

TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 480 

LAUS  DEO,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 481 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  "Grand  Army's"  Second  Campaign 

MOSBT  AT  HAMILTON,  Madison  Cawein       482 

JOHN  PELHAM,  James  Ryder  Randall 482 

HOOKER  's  ACROSS,  George  Henry  Boker 483 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY,  John  Williamson  Palmer 483 

KEENAN'S  CHARGE,  George  Parsons  Lathrop        484 

/"THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR,"  Unknown 485 

/  STONEWALL  JACKSON,  Henry  Lynden  Flash 486 

v  THE  DYING  WORDS  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON,  Sidney  Lanier 486 

UNDER  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 486 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ISHMAEL  DAY,  Unknown 487 

RIDING  WITH  KILPATRICK,  Clinton  Scollard 488 

GETTYSBURG,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 489 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG,  Will  Henry  Thompson 491 

GETTYSBURG,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 492 

THE  BATTLE-FIELD,  Lloyd  Mifflin 492 

JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG,  Bret  Harte 493 

KENTUCKY  BELLE,  Constance  Fenimore  Woolson 494 

y  THE  DRAFT  RIOT,  Charles  de  Kay • 496 
LINCOLN  AT  GETTYSBURG,  Bayard  Taylor 497 

CHAPTER  IX 

With  Grant  on  the  Mississippi 

RUNNING  THE  BATTERIES,  Herman  Melville 498 

BEFORE  VICKSBURG,  George  Henry  Boker 499 

VICKSBURG,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 499 

THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  FREEDOM,  George  Frederick  Root 500 

THE  BLACK  REGIMENT,  George  Henry  Boker 500 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CHICKAMAUGA,  Maurice  Thompson 501 

THOMAS  AT  CHICKAMAUGA,  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood 502 

GARFIELD'S  RIDE  AT  CHICKAMAUGA,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 503 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN,  George  Henry  Boker 505 

THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUDS,  William  Dean  Howells 506 


xxvi  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

CHARLESTON,  Henry  Timrod 507 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 507 

BURY  THEM,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 508 

TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard , 509 

CHAPTER  X 

The  Final  Struggle 

Pur  IT  THROUGH,  Edward  Everett  Hale 509 

LOGAN  AT  PEACH  TREE  CREEK,  Hainlin  Garland 510 

A  DIRGE  FOR  MCPHERSON,  Herman  Melville ...511 

WITH  CORSE  AT  ALLATOONA,  Samuel  H.  M.  Byers 511 

ALLATOONA,  Unknown 514 

SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA,  Samuel  H.  M.  Byers 512 

THE  SONG  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY,  Charles  Graham  Halpine 513 

,  MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA,  Henry  Clay  Work 513 

v  ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLORS,  Walt  Whitman 514 

SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  .     .     , 514 

SAVANNAH,  Alethea  S.  Burroughs 514 

CAROLINA,  Henry  Timrod 515 

CHARLESTON,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 515 

ROMANCE,  William  Ernest  Henley 516 

THE  FOE  AT  THE  GATES,  John  Dickson  Bruns 516 

ULRIC  DAHLGREN,  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood 517 

LEE  TO  THE  REAR,  John  Randolph  Thompson 518 

CAN'T,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 519 

OBSEQUIES  OF  STUART,  John  Randolph  Thompson 519 

A  CHRISTOPHER  OF  THE  SHENANDOAH,  Edith  M.  Thomas 520 

SHERIDAN  AT  CEDAR  CREEK,  Herman  Melville 521 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 521 

THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE,  Henry  Clay  Work 522 

VIRGINIA  CAPTA,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 523 

THE  FALL  OF  RICHMOND,  Herman  Melville 523 

THE  SURRENDER  AT  APPOMATTOX,  Herman  Melville 524 

LEE'S  PAROLE,  Marion  Manville 524 

ROBERT  E.  LEE,  Julia  Ward  Howe 524 

CHAPTER  XI 

Winslow  and  Farragut 

THE  EAGLE  AND  VULTURE,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 525 

KEARSARGE  AND  ALABAMA,  Unknown 526 

KEARSARGE,  S.  Weir  Mitchell 526 

THE  ALABAMA,  Maurice  Bell 527 

CRAVEN,  Henry  Newbolt 527 

FARRAGUT,  William  Tuckey  Meredith       528 

THROUGH  FIRE  IN  MOBILE  BAY,  Unknown 529 

THE  BAY  FIGHT,  Henry  Howard  Brownell 530 

"ALBEMARLE"  GUSHING,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 535 

AT  THE  CANNON'S  MOUTH,  Herman  Melville 537 

CHAPTER  XII 

The  Martyr  President 

LINCOLN,  S.  Weir  Mitchell 537 

O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN!  Walt  Whitman 537 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  xxvii 

THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT,  Edward  Rowland  Sill 538 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 538 

PARDON,  Julia  Ward  Howe 539 

THE  DEAR  PRESIDENT,  John  James  Piatt 539 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  William  Cullen  Bryant 540 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 540 

PARRICIDE,  Julia  Ward  Howe 54*2 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  Tom  Taylor 54# 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Peace 

"STACK  ARMS,"  Joseph  Blynth  Alston 545 

JEFFERSON  DAVIS,  Walker  Meriwether  Bell 545 

IN  THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE  DREAMING,  Daniel  B.  Lucas 546 

ACCEPTATION,  Margaret  Junkin  Preston 547 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER,  Abram  J.  Ryan 547 

PEACE,  Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney 547 

PEACE,  Phoebe  Gary y 548 

A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY,  Bret  Harte /. 548 

J&VHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME,  Patrick  Sarsfield  Gilmore  +S 549 

'DRIVING  HOME  THE  Cows,  Kate  Putnam  Osgood 550 

ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVAKD   COMMEMORATION,  JamCS  Russell  Lowell 550 


PART   V 

THE    PERIOD    OF    EXPANSION 

THE  EAGLE'S  SONG,  Richard  Mansfield 558 

CHAPTER  I 

Reconstruction  and  After 

To  THE  THIRTY-NINTH  CONGRESS,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 559 

"MR.  JOHNSON'S  POLICY  OF  RECONSTRUCTION,"  Charles  Graham  Halpine      ....  559 

THADDEUS  STEVENS,  Phoebe  Gary 560 

SOUTH  CAROLINA  TO  THE  STATES  OF  THE  NORTH,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 561 

Ku-KLUX,  Madison  Cawein 562 

THE  REAR  GUARD,  Irene  Fowler  Brown 562 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY,  Francis  Miles  Finch 563 

THE  STRICKEN  SOUTH  TO  THE  NORTH,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 564 

How  CYRUS  LAID  THE  CABLE,  John  Godfrey  Saxe 565 

THE  CABLE  HYMN,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier ,....,...  565 

AN  ARCTIC  VISION,  Bret  Harte 565 

ALASKA,  Joaquin  Miller 567 

ISRAEL  FREYER'S  BID  FOR  GOLD,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 567 

CHICAGO,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 568 

CHICAGO,  Bret  Harte 569 

CHICAGO,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 569 

BOSTON,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 570 

THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  REVOLUTION,  Hezekiah  Butterworth 570 

AFTER  THE  FIRE.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 571 

THE  RIDE  OF  COLLINS  GRAVES,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 571 


j 


xxviii  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  H 

The  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years 

OUR  FIRST  CENTURY,  George  Edward  Woodberry 572 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 573 

THE  CENTENNIAL  MEDITATION  OF  COLUMBIA,  Sidney  Lanier 573 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN,  William  Cullen  Bryant 574 

WELCOME  TO  THE  NATIONS,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 574 

THE  NATIONAL  ODE,  Bayard  Taylor 575 

OUR  NATIONAL  BANNER,  Dexter  Smith 578 

AFTER  THE  CENTENNIAL,  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch 578 

CHAPTER  III 

The  Conquest  of  the  Plains 

THE  PACIFIC  RAILWAY,  C.  R.  Ballard 579 

AFTER  THE  COMANCHES,  Unknown     . 579 

DOWN  THE  LITTLE  BIG  HORN,  Francis  Brooks 580 

LITTLE  Bio  HORN,  Ernest  McGaffey       581 

CUSTER'S  LAST  CHARGE,  Frederick  Whittaker 582 

CUSTER,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 583 

THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 583 

MILES  KEOGH'S  HORSE,  John  Hay 584 

ON  THE  BIG  HORN,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 585 

THE  "GREY  HORSE  TROOP,"  Robert  W.  Chambers 585 

GERONIMO,  Ernest  McGaffey 586 

THE  LAST  RESERVATION,  Walter  Learned 586 

INDIAN  NAMES,  Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney 587 

CHAPTER  IV 

The  Second  Assassination 

REJOICE,  Joaquin  Miller 587 

THE  BELLS  AT  MIDNIGHT,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 588 

J.  A.  G.,  Julia  Ward  Howe 589 

MIDNIGHT  —  SEPTEMBER  19,  1881,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 589 

AT  THE  PRESIDENT'S  GRAVE,  Richard  Watson  Gilder 590 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 590 

PRESIDENT  GARFIELD,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 591 

YORKTOWN  CENTENNIAL  LYRIC,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 592 

THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE,  Edna  Dean  Proctor       593 

BROOKLYN  BRIDGE,  Charles  George  Douglas  Roberts 593 

CHARLESTON,  Richard  Watson  Gilder 594 

MAYFLOWER,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 594 

FAIREST  OF  FREEDOM'S  DAUGHTERS,  Jeremiah  Eames  Rankin 594 

LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE  WORLD,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 595 

THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 595 

ADDITIONAL  VERSES  TO  HAIL  COLUMBIA,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 596 

NEW  NATIONAL  HYMN,  Francis  Marion  Crawford 596 

IN  APIA  BAY,  Charles  George  Douglas  Roberts 597 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE,  Caroline  T.  Duer 598 

BY  THE  CONEMAUGH,  Florence  Earle  Coates 599 

THE  MAN  WHO  RODE  TO  CONEMAUGH,  John  Eliot  Bowen 599 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  CONEMAUGH  FLOOD,  Hardwick  Drummond  Rawnsley 600 

CONEMAUGH,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward 601 

"THE  WHITE  CITY,"  Richard  Watson  Gilder 602 

THE  KEARSARGE,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 602 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS  xxix 

TENNESSEE,  Virginia  Fraser  Boyle       603 

AN  ODE  ON  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  SHAW  MEMORIAL,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich      .    .  603 
THE  KLONDIKE,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 604 

CHAPTER  V 

The  War  with  Spain 

APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  ISLAND  OF  CUBA,  James  Gates  Percival 606 

THE  GALLANT  FIFTY-ONE,  Henry  Lynden  Flash       606 

CUBA,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 607 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  PEACE,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 607 

CUBA,  Harvey  Rice 608 

CUBA  TO  COLUMBIA,  Will  Carleton 608 

CUBA  LIBRE,  Joaquin  Miller 609 

THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS,  Joseph  B.  Gilder 609 

THE  MEN  OF  THE  MAINE,  Clinton  Scollard 609 

THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD  FROM  HAVANA,  Richard  Hovey 610 

HALF-MAST,  Lloyd  Mifflin 611 

THE  FIGHTING  RACE,  Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke 611 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  WAR.  Danske  Dandridge 612 

To  SPAIN  —  A  LAST  WTORD,  Edith  M.  Thomas 612 

THE  MARTYRS  OF  THE  MAINE,  Rupert  Hughes 612 

EL  EMPLAZADO,  William  Henry  Venable 613 

BATTLE  SONG,  Robert  Burns  Wilson 613 

GREETING  FROM  ENGLAND,  Unknown 614 

BATTLE  CRY,  William  Henry  Venable 614 

JUST  ONE  SIGNAL,  Unknown 614 

DEWEY  AT  MANILA,  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 615 

DEWEY  AND  HIS  MEN,  Wallace  Rice 617 

"OFF  MANILLY,"  Edmund  Vance  Cooke 618 

MANILA  BAY,  Arthur  Hale 618 

A  BALLAD  OF  MANILA  BAY,  Charles  George  Douglas  Roberts 618 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MANILA,  Richard  Hovey 619 

DEWEY  IN  MANILA  BAY,  R.  V.  Risley 620 

"MENE,  MENE,  TEKEL,  UPHARSIN,"  Madison  Cawein 620 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MAINE,  Tudor  Jenks 621 

THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  SEAS,  Thomas  Nelson  Page 621 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  FLEET,  Unknown 622 

"CuT  THE  CABLES,"  Robert  Burns  Wilson 622 

THE  RACE  OF  THE  OREGON,  John  James  Meehan 624 

BATTLE-SONG  OF  THE  OREGON,  Wallace  Rice 624 

STRIKE  THE  BLOW,  Unknown 625 

EIGHT  VOLUNTEERS.  Lansing  C.  Bailey 626 

THE  MEN  OF  THE  MERRIMAC,  Clinton  Scollard 626 

THE  VICTORY- WRECK,  Will  Carleton 627 

HOBSON  AND  HIS  MEN,  Robert  Loveman 627 

THE  CALL  TO  THE  COLORS,  Arthur  Guiterman 627 

ESSEX  REGIMENT  MARCH,  George  Edward  Woodberry 628 

THE  GATHERING,  Herbert  B.  Swett 629 

COMRADES,  Henry  R.  Dorr 629 

WHEELER'S  BRIGADE  AT  SANTIAGO,  Wallace  Rice 629 

DEEDS  OF  VALOR  AT  SANTIAGO,  Clinton  Scollard 630 

THE  CHARGE  AT  SANTIAGO,  William  Hamilton  Hayne 630 

PRIVATE  BLAIR  OF  THE  REGULARS,  Clinton  Scollard 631 

WHEELER  AT  SANTIAGO,  James  Lindsay  Gordon 631 

SPAIN'S  LAST  ARMADA,  Wallace  Rice 632 

SANTIAGO,  Thomas  A.  Janvier 633 

THE  FLEET  AT  SANTIAGO,  Charles  E.  Russell , 634 


xxx  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

THE  DESTROYER  OF  DESTROYERS,  Wallace  Rice 635 

THE  BROOKLYN  AT  SANTIAGO,  Wallace  Rice °  636 

THE  RUSH  OF  THE  OREGON,  Arthur  Guiterman       637 

THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS,  John  Jerome  Rooney 637 

CERVERA,  Bertrand  Shadwell .  638 

MclLRATH  OF  MALATE,  John  Jerome  Rooney 639 

WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS  COME  IN,  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl 640 

FULL  CYCLE,  John  White  Chadwick 640 

BREATH  ON  THE  OAT,  Joseph  Russell  Taylor       641 

THE  ISLANDS  OF  THE  SEA,  George  Edward  Woodberry .641 

BALLADE  OF  EXPANSION,  Hilda  Johnson 642 

"  REBELS,"  Ernest  Crosby .. „ '  643 

ON  A  SOLDIER  FALLEN  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES,  William  Vaughn  Moody 643 

THE  BALLAD  OF  PACO  TOWN,  Clinton  Scollard 644 

THE  DEED  OF  LIEUTENANT  MILES,  Clinton  Scollard 644 

AGUINALDO,  Bertrand  Shadwell 645 

THE  FIGHT  AT  DAJO,  Alfred  E.  Wood 645 

AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION,  William  Vaughn  Moody       646 

CHAPTER  VI 

The  New  Century 

A  TOAST  TO  OUH  NATIVE  LAND,  Robert  Bridges 649 

BUFFALO,  Florence  Earle  Coates 649 

McKiNLEY,  Unknown 649 

FAITHFUL  UNTO  DEATH,  Richard  Handfield  Titherington 650 

THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  TREES,  Richard  Watson  Gilder 650 

OUTWARD  BOUND,  Edward  Sydney  Tylee 650 

PANAMA,  James  Jeffrey  Roche 651 

DARIEN,  Edwin  Arnold 651 

PANAMA,  Amanda  T.  Jones 652 

A  SONG  OF  PANAMA,  Alfred  Damon  Runyon 652 

HYMN  OF  THE  WEST,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 653 

BRITANNIA  TO  COLUMBIA,  Alfred  Austin 654 

THOSE  REBEL  FLAGS,  John  H.  Jewett 654 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLAGS,  S.  Weir  Mitchell 655 

ARIZONA,  Sharlot  M.  Hall 655 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  Joaquin  Miller 657 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  John  Vance  Cheney       657 

To  SAN  FRANCISCO,  S.  J.  Alexander 657 

RESURGE  SAN  FRANCISCO,  Joaquin  Miller 658 

GROVER  CLEVELAND,  Joel  Benton 658 

UNGUARDED  GATES,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 659 

NATIONAL  SONG,  William  Henry  Venable 659 

AD  PATRIAM,  Clinton  Scollard 6"0 

O  LAND  BELOVED,  George  Edward  Woodberry 660 

THE  REPUBLIC,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 660 

CHAPTER  VH 

The  World  War 

SONNETS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  FALL  OF  1914,  George  Edward  Woodberry 661 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT,  Vachel  Lindsay 661 

THE  "WILLIAM  P.  FRYE,"  Jeanne  Robert  Foster 662 

THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED,  Joyce  Kilmer       663 

MARE  LIBERUM,  Henry  van  Dyke 664 

ODE  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  VOLUNTEERS  FALLEN  FOR  FRANCE,  Alan  Seeger  .    .    .  664 
REPUBLIC  TO  REPUBLIC,  Witter  Bynner .  666 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xxxi 

To  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA,  Robert  Bridges 666 

THE  CAPTIVE  SHIPS  AT  MANILA,  Dorothy  Paul 666 

THE  ROAD  TO  FRANCE,  Daniel  Henderson 667 

PERSHING  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LAFAYETTE,  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 667 

YOUR  LAD,  AND  MY  LAD,  Randall  Parrish 668 

A  CALL  TO  ARMS,  Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 668 

THE  FIRST  THREE,  Clinton  Scollard 669 

To  AMERICA,  ON  HER  FIRST  SONS  FALLEN  IN  THE  GREAT  WAR,  E.  M.  Walker 670 

ROUGE  BOUQUET,  Joyce  Kilmer 670 

MARCHING  SONG,  Dana  Burnet 671 

OUR  MODEST  DOUGHBOYS,  Charlton  Andrews 671 

SEICHEPREY 672 

A  BALLAD  OF  REDHEAD'S  DAY,  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 672 

VICTORY  BELLS,  Grace  Hazard  Conkling        673 

EPICEDIUM,  J.  Corson  Miller 673 

THE  DEAD,  David  Morton 674 

THE  UNRETURNING,  Clinton  Scollard 674 

THE  STAR,  Marion  Couthouy  Smith 674 

BREST  LEFT  BEHIND,  John  Chipman  Farrar 674 

To  THE  RETURNING  BRAVE,  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 675 

THE  RETURN,  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 676 

KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS,  Marion  Couthouy  Smith 676 

THE  FAMILY  OF  NATIONS,  Willard  Wattles 677 

THE  LEAGUE  OF  NATIONS,  Mary  Siegrist . 677 

BEYOND  WARS,  David  Morton 678 

"WHEN  THERE  is  PEACE,"  Austin  Dobson 678 

AFTER  THE  WAR,  Richard  Le  Gallienne 678 

NOTES   .  .  681 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 698 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 705 

INDEX  OF  TITLES .  713 


PART   I 
THE  COLONIAL  PERIOD 


AMERICA 

OH,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  Northmen  of  yore, 
How  flew,  like  the  sea-bird,  their  sails  from  the  shore; 
How  westward  they  stayed  not  till,  breasting  the  brine, 
They  hailed  Narragansett,  the  land  of  the  vine  ? 

Then  the  war-songs  of  Rollo,  his  pennon  and  glaive, 
Were  heard  as  they  danced  by  the  moon-lighted  wave, 
And  their  golden-haired  wives  bore  them  sons  of  the  soil, 
While  raged  with  the  redskins  their  feud  and  turmoil. 

And  who  has  not  seen,  mid  the  summer's  gay  crowd, 
That  old  pillared  tower  of  their  fortalice  proud, 
How  it  stands  solid  proof  of  the  sea  chieftains'  reign 
Ere  came  with  Columbus  those  galleys  of  Spain  ? 

T  was  a  claim  for  their  kindred :  an  earnest  of  sway,  — 
By  the  stout-hearted  Cabot  made  good  in  its  day,  — 
Of  the  Cross  of  St.  George  on  the  Chesapeake's  tide, 
Where  lovely  Virginia  arose  like  a  biii?. 

Came  the  pilgrims  with  Winthrop;  and,  saint  of  the  West, 
Came  Robert  of  Jamestown,  the  brave  and  the  blest; 
Came  Smith,  the  bold  rover,  and  Rolfe  —  with  his  ring, 
To  wed  sweet  Matoaka,  child  of  a  king. 

Undaunted  they  came,  every  peril  to  dare, 

Of  tribes  fiercer  far  than  the  wolf  in  his  lair; 

Of  the  wild  irksome  woods,  where  in  ambush  they  lay; 

Of  their  terror  by  night  and  their  arrow  by  day. 

And  so  where  our  capes  cleave  the  ice  of  the  poles, 
Where  groves  of  the  orange  scent  sea-coast  and  shoals, 
Where  the  troward  Atlantic  uplifts  its  last  crest, 
Where  the  sun,  when  he  sets,  seeks  the  East  from  the  We«*S 

The  clime  that  from  ocean  to  ocean  expands, 
The  fields  to  the  snow-drifts  that  stretch  from  the  sands, 
The  wilds  they  have  conquered  of  rrountain  and  plain, 
Those  pilgrims  have  made  them  fair  Freedom's  domain. 

And  the  bread  of  dependence  if  proudly  they  spurned, 
'T  was  the  soul  of  their  fathers  that  kindled  and  burned, 
'T  was  the  blood  of  the  Saxon  within  them  that  ran ; 
They  held  —  to  be  free  is  the  birthright  of  man. 

So  oft  the  old  lion,  majestic  of  mane, 

Sees  cubs  of  his  cave  breaking  loose  from  his  reign; 

Unmeet  to  be  his  if  they  braved  not  his  eye, 

He  gave  them  the  spirit  his  own  to  defy. 

ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXF* 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY 


THE   DISCOVERY   OF   AMERICA 


Bjarni,  eon  of  Herjulf,  speeding  westward  from 
Iceland  in  086,  to  spend  the  Yuletide  in  Greenland 
with  his  father,  encountered  foggy  weather  and 
steered  by  guesswork  for  many  days.  At  last  he 
sighted  land,  but  a  land  covered  with  dense  woods, 
—  not  at  all  the  land  of  fiords  and  glaciers  he  was 
seeking.  So,  without  stopping,  he  turned  his  prow 
to  the  north,  and  ten  days  later  was  telling  his 
story  to  the  listening  circle  before  the  blacing  logs 
in  his  father's  house  at  Brattahlid.  The  tale  came, 
in  time,  to  the  ears  of  Leif,  the  famous  son  of  Red 
Eric,  and  in  the  year  1000  he  set  out  from  Green 
land,  with  a  crew  of  thirty-five,  in  search  of  the 
strange  land  to  the  south.  He  reached  the  barren 
coast  of  Labrador  and  named  it  Helluland,  or 
"slate-land;"  south  of  it  was  a  coast  so  densely 
wooded  that  he  named  it  Markland,  or  "wood 
land."  At  last  he  ran  his  ship  ashore  at  a  spot 
where  "a  river,  issuing  from  a  lake,  fell  into  the 
sea."  Wild  grapes  abounded,  and  he  named  the 
country  Vinland. 

THE   STORY  OF   VINLAND1 

From  "Psalm  of  the  West" 

FAR  spread,  below, 

The  sea  that  fast  hath  locked  in  his  loose  flow 
All  secrets  of  Atlantis'  drowned  woe 

Lay  bound  about  with  night  on  every  hand, 
Save  down  the  eastern  brink  a  shining  band 
Of  day  made  out  a  little  way  from  land. 
Then  from  that  shore  the  wind  upbore  a  cry : 
Thou  Sea,  thou  Sea  of  Darlcness  I  why,  oh  why 
Dost  waste  thy  West  in  unthrift  mystery  f 
But  ever  the  idiot  sea-mouths  foam  and  fill, 
And  never  a  wave  doth  good  for  man,  or  ill, 
And  Blank  is  king,  and  Nothing  hath  his 

will; 

And  like  as  grim-beaked  pelicans  level  file 
Across  the  sunset  toward  their  nightly  isle 
On  solemn  wings  that  wave  but  seldomwhile, 
So  leanly  sails  the  day  behind  the  day 
To  where  the  Past's  lone  Rock  o'erglooms 

the  spray, 
And  down  its  mortal  fissures  sinks  away. 

i  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright, 
1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  ScribnerV  Sons. 


Master,  Master,  break  this  ban: 

The  wave  lacks  Thee. 
Oh,  is  it  not  to  widen  man 

Stretches  the  sea? 
Oh,  must  the  sea-bird's  idle  van 

Alone  be  free  ? 

Into  the  Sea  of  the  Dark  doth  creep 

Bjorne's  pallid  sail, 
As  the  face  of  a  walker  in  his  sleep, 

Set  rigid  and  most  pale, 
About  the  night  doth  peer  and  peep 

In  a  dream  of  an  ancient  tale. 

Lo,  here  is  made  a  hasty  cry: 

Land,  land,  upon  the  west !  — 
God  save  such  land !   Go  by,  go  by : 

Here  may  no  mortal  rest, 
Where  this  waste  hell  of  slate  doth  lie 

And  grind  the  glacier's  breast. 

The  sail  goeth  limp:  hey,  flap  and  strain! 

Round  eastward  slanteth  the  mast; 
As  the  sleep-walker  waked  with  pain, 

White-clothed  in  the  midnight  blast, 
Doth  stare  and  quake,  and  stride  again 

To  houseward  all  aghast. 

Yet  as  —  A  ghost!  his  household  cry: 
He  hath  followed  a  ghost  in  flight. 

Let  us  see  the  ghost  —  his  household  fly 
With  lamps  to  search  the  night  — 

So  Norsemen's  sails  run  out  and  try 
The  Sea  of  the  Dark  with  light. 

Stout  Are  Marson,  southward  whirled 

From  out  the  tempest's  hand, 
Doth  skip  the  sloping  of  the  world 

To  Huitramannaland, 

Where    Georgia's    oaks    with    moss-beards 
curled 

Wave  by  the  shining  strand, 

And  sway  in  sighs  from  Florida's  Spring 
Or  Carolina's  Palm  — 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


What  time  the  mocking-bird  doth  bring 

The  woods  his  artist's-balm, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Everything 

Consummate-sweet  and  calm  — 

Land  of  large  merciful-hearted  skies, 

Big  bounties,  rich  increase, 
Green  rests  for  Trade's  blood-shotten  eyes, 

For  o'er-beat  brains  surcease, 
For  Love  the  dear  woods'  sympathies, 

For  Grief  the  wise  woods'  peace. 

For  Need  rich  givings  of  hid  powers 

In  hills  and  vales  quick-won, 
For  Greed  large  exemplary  flowers 

That  ne'er  have  toiled  nor  spun, 
For  Heat  fair-tempered  winds  and  showers, 

For  Cold  the  neighbor  sun. 


Then  Leif,  bold  son  of  Eric  the  Red, 
To  the  South  of  the  West  doth  flee  — 

Past  slaty  Helluland  is  sped, 
Past  Markland's  woody  lea, 

Till  round  about  fair  Vinland's  head, 
Where  Taunton  helps  the  sea, 

The  Norseman  calls,  the  anchor  falls, 

The  mariners  hurry  a-strand: 
They  wassail  with  fore-drunken  skals 

Where  prophet  wild  grapes  stand; 
They  lift  the  Leifsbooth's  hasty  walls, 

They  stride  about  the  land  — 

New  England,  thee!  whose  ne'er-spent  wine 
As  blood  doth  stretch  each  vein, 

And  urge  thee,  sinewed  like  thy  vine, 
Through  peril  and  all  pain 

To  grasp  Endeavor's  towering  Pine, 
And,  once  ahold,  remain  — 

Land  where  the  strenuous-handed  Wind 

With  sarcasm  of  a  friend 
Doth  smite  the  man  would  lag  behind 

To  frontward  of  his  end; 
Yea,  where  the  taunting  fall  and  grind 

Of  Nature's  111  doth  send 

Such  mortal  challenge  of  a  clown 

Rude-thrust  upon  the  soul, 
That  men  but  smile  where  mountains  frown 

Or  scowling  waters  roll, 
And  Nature's  front  of  battle  down 

Do  hurl  from  1«olt->  to  pole. 


Now  long  the  Sea  of  Darkness  glimmers  low 
With  sails  from  Northland  flickering  to  and 

fro  — 
Thorwald,  Karlsefne,  and  those  twin  heirs 

of  woe, 

Hellboge  and  Finnge,  in  treasonable  bed 

Slain  by  the  ill-born  child  of  Eric  Red, 

Freydisa  false.    Till,  as  much  time  is  fled, 

Once  more  the  vacant  airs  with  darkness  fill, 

Once  more  the  wave  doth  never  good  nor  ill, 

And  Blank  is  king,  and  Nothing  works  his 

will; 

And  leanly  sails  the  day  behind  the  day 
To  where  the  Past's  lone  Rock  o'erglooms 

the  spray, 

And  down  its  mortal  fissures  sinks  away, 
As  when  the  grim-beaked  pelicans  level  file 
Across  the  sunset  to  their  seaward  isle 
On  solemn  wings  that  wave  but  seldomwhile. 
SIDNEY  LANIEK. 


Leif  and  his  crew  spent  the  winter  in  Vinland, 
and  in  the  following  spring  took  back  to  Green 
land  news  of  the  pleasant  country  they  had  dis 
covered.  Other  voyages  followed,  but  the  new 
comers  became  embroiled  with  the  natives,  who 
attacked  them  in  such  numbers  that  all  projects 
of  colonization  were  abandoned;  and  finally,  in 
1012,  the  Norsemen  sailed  away  forever  from  this 
land  of  promise. 

THE   NORSEMEN 

[On  a  fragment  of  statue  found  at  Bradford.] 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 

Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam; 

From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 

The  circles  widen  to  its  shore: 

And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 

Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 

The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 


THE  NORSEMEN 


5 


And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear,  — 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone, 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone! 

A  change !  —  The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud: 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood ; 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand; 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill, 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But    hark !  —  from  wood    and    rock    flung 

back, 

What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimac? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daugh 
ters 

Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky. 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Northmen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
A  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping;  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme; 


Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well; 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 

In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air, 

Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare; 

I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 

And  hum  of  work-day  life  again; 

The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 

A  broken  mass  of  common  stone; 

And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 

Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim, 

A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 

The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 

Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 

Or  love-awakening  Siona, 

I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line. 

Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 

Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 

Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 

This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 

My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 

Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind, 

A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 

Can  summon  the  departed  forth ; 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again, 

The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 

The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 

As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 

By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 

Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 

The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 

To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 

To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 

To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 

But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 

Through    the    mind's    waste    of   woe    and 

sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEE. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


This,  in  mere  outline,  is  the  story  of  Vinland, 
as  told  in  the  Icelandic  Chronicle.  Of  its  substan 
tial  accuracy  there  can  be  little  doubt.  Many 
proofs  of  Norse  occupation  have  been  found  on 
the  shores  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  The  "skeleton 
in  armor,"  however,  which  was  unearthed  in  1835 
near  Fall  River,  Mass.,  was  probably  that  of  an 
Indian. 


THE   SKELETON   IN   ARMOR 

"SPEAK!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms;, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

C'I  was  a  Viking  old! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  1  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
3,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 


"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
1  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

"WThile  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinkine;-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


PROPHECY 


"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

'Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea. 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death!'   was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter!' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel! 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water! 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden,  —  (r 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour. 
Stands  looking  seaward. 


"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

•  My  soul  ascended! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!   skoal!" 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 
HENRY  W^DSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  centuries  passed,  and  no  more  of  the  white- 
skinned  rare  came  to  the  New  World.  But  a  new 
era  was  at  hand;  the  day  drew  near  when  a  little 
fleet  was  to  put  out  from  Spain  and  turn  itj 
prows  westward  on  the  grandest  voyage  the  world 
has  ever  known. 


PROPHECY 

From  "II  Morgante  Maggiore" 
1485 

His  bark 

The  daring  mariner  shall  urge  far  o'er 
The  Western  wave,  a  smooth  and  level  plain. 
Albeit  the  earth  is  fashioned  like  a  wheel. 
Man  was  in  ancient  days  of  grosser  mould. 
And  Hercules  might  blush  to  learn  how  far 
Beyond  the  limits  he  had  vainly  set 
The  dullest  sea-boat  soon  shall  wing  her  way. 
Man  shall  descry  another  hemisphere, 
Since  to  one  common  centre  all  things  tend. 
So  earth,  by  curious  mystery  divine 
Well  balanced,  hangs  amid  the  starry  spheres. 
At  our  antipodes  are  cities,  states. 
And  thronged  empires,  ne'er  divined  of  yore. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  see,  the  sun  speeds  on  his  western  path 
To  glad  the  nations  with  expected  light. 
LUIGI  PULCI. 


About  1436  a  son  was  born  to  Dominico  Co 
lombo,  wool-comber,  of  Genoa,  and  in  due  time 
christened  Cristoforo.  Of  his  boyhood  little  is 
known  save  that  he  early  went  to  sea.  About 
1470  he  followed  his  brother  Bartholomew  to 
Lisbon,  and  in  1474  he  was  given  a  map  by  Tos- 
canelli,  the  Florentine  astronomer,  showing  Japan 
and  the  Indies  directly  west  of  Portugal,  together 
with  a  long  letter  in  which  Toscanelli  explained 
his  reasons  for  believing  that  by  sailing  west  one 
could  reach  the  East.  Columbus,  studying  the 
problem  month  by  month,  became  convinced  of 
the  feasibility  of  such  a  route  to  the  Indies,  and 
determined  himself  to  traverse  it. 


THE  INSPIRATION 

From  "The  West  Indies" 

LONG  lay  the  ocean-paths  from  man  conceal' d ; 
Light  came  from  heaven,  —  the  magnet  was 

reveal'd, 

A  surer  star  to  guide  the  seaman's  eye 
Than  the  pale  glory  of  the  northern  sky; 
Alike  ordain'd  to  shine  by  night  and  day, 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  with  unsetting 

ray; 
Where'er  the  mountains  rise,    the   billows 

roll, 

Still  with  strong  impulse  turning  to  the  pole, 
True  as  the  sun  is  to  the  morning  true, 
Though  light  as  film,  and  trembling  as  the 

dew. 

Then  man  no  longer  plied  with  timid  oar, 
And  failing  heart,  along  the  windward  shore; 
Broad  to  the  sky  he  turn'd  his  fearless  sail, 
Defied  the  adverse,  woo'd  the  favoring  gale, 
Bared  to  the  storm  his  adamantine  breast, 
Or  soft  on  ocean's  lap  lay  down  to  rest; 
While  free,  as  clouds  the  liquid  ether  sweep, 
His   white-wing'd   vessels   coursed   the   un 
bounded  deep; 
From  clime  to  clime  the  wanderer  loved  to 

roam, 
The  waves  his  heritage,  the  world  his  home. 

Then  first  Columbus,  with  the  mighty  hand 
Of  grasping  genius,  weigh'd  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  floods  o'erbalanced :  —  where  the  tide  of 

light, 
Day  after  day,  rolFd  down  the  gulf  of  night, 


There  seem'd  one  waste  of  waters :  —  long 

in  vain 

His  spirit  brooded  o'er  the  Atlantic  main; 
When  sudden,  as  creation  burst  from  nought, 
Sprang  a  new  world  through  his  stupendous 

thought, 
Light,    order,    beauty !  —  While    his    mind 

explored 

The  unveiling  mystery,  his  heart  adored; 
Where  er  sublime  imagination  trod, 
He  heard  the  voice,  he  saw  the  face  of  God. 

Far  from  the  western  cliffs  he  cast  his  eye, 
O'er  the  wide  ocean  stretching  to  the  sky: 
In  calm  magnificence  the  sun  declined, 
And  left  a  paradise  of  clouds  behind: 
Proud  at  his  feet,  with  pomp  of  pearl  and 

gold, 
The  billows  in  a  sea  of  glory  rolFd. 

"  —  Ah !  on  this  sea  of  glory  might  I  sail, 
Track  the  bright  sun,  and  pierce  the  eternal 

veil 
That  hides  those  lands,  beneath  Hesperian 

skies, 
Where   daylight   sojourns   till   our   morrow 

rise ! " 

Thoughtful  he  wander'd  on  the  beach  alone; 
Mild  o'er  the  deep  the  vesper  planet  shone, 
The  eye  of  evening,  brightening  through  the 

west 

Till  the  sweet  moment  when  it  shut  to  rest: 
"  Whither,  O  golden  Venus !  art  thou  fled  ? 
Not  in  the  ocean-chambers  lies  thy  bed; 
Round  the  dim  world  thy  glittering  chariot 

drawn 

Pursues  the  twilight,  or  precedes  the  dawn ; 
Thy  beauty  noon  and  midnight  never  see, 
The  morn  and  eve  divide  the  year  with 

thee." 

Soft  fell  the  shades,  till  Cynthia's  slender  bow 
Crested  the  furthest  wave,  then   sunk   be 
low: 

"Tell  me,  resplendent  guardian  of  the  night, 
Circling  the  sphere  in  thy  perennial  flight, 
What  secret  path  of  heaven  thy  smiles  adorn, 
What   nameless   sea   reflects   thy   gleaming 
horn?" 

Now  earth  and  ocean  vanish'd,  all  serene 
The  starry  firmament  alone  was  seen; 
Through  the  slow,  silent  hours,  he  watcb'd 
the  host 


COLUMBUS   TO    FERDINAND 


Of  midnight  suns  in  western  darkness  lost, 
Till  Night  himself,  on  shadowy  pinions  borne, 
Fled  o'er  the  mighty  waters,  and  the  morn 
Danced    on    the    mountains:  —  "Lights    of 

heaven!"   he  cried, 

"Lead  on;  —  I  go  to  win  a  glorious  bride; 
Fearless  o'er  gulfs  unknown  I  urge  my  way, 
Where  peril  prowls,  and  shipwreck  lurks  for 

prey: 

Hope  swells  my  sail ;  —  in  spirit  I  behold 
That  maiden-world,  twin-sister  of  the  old, 
By  nature  nursed  beyond  the  jealous  sea, 
Denied  to  ages,  but  betroth'd  to  me." 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


In  1484  Columbus  laid  his  plan  before  King 
John  II,  of  Portugal,  but  became  so  disgusted 
with  his  treachery  and  double-dealing,  that  he 
left  Portugal  and  entered  the  service  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella.  The  Spanish  monarchs  listened  to 
him  with  attention,  and  ordered  that  the  greatest 
astronomers  and  cosmographers  of  the  kingdom 
should  assemble  at  Salamanca  and  pass  upon  the 
feasibility  of  the  project. 


COLUMBUS 

[January,  1487] 

ST.  STEPHEN'S  cloistered  hall  was  proud 

In  learning's  pomp  that  day, 
For  there  a  robed  and  stately  crowd 

Pressed  on  in  long  array. 
A  mariner  with  simple  chart 

Confronts  that  conclave  high, 
While  strong  ambition  stirs  his  heart, 
And  burning  thoughts  of  wonder  part 

From  lip  and  sparkling  eye. 

What  hath  he  said  ?    With  frowning  face, 

In  whispered  tones  they  speak, 
And  lines  upon  their  tablets  trace, 

Which  flush  each  ashen  cheek; 
The  Inquisition's  mystic  doom 

Sits  on  their  brows  severe. 
And  bursting  forth  in  visioned  gloom, 
Sad  heresy  from  burning  tomb 

Groans  on  the  startled  ear. 

Courage,  thou  Genoese!    Old  Time 
Thy  splendid  dream  shall  crown; 

Yon  Western  Hemisphere  sublime, 
Where  unshorn  forests  frown, 

The  awful  Andes'  cloud-wrapt  brow, 
The  Indian  hunter's  bow, 


Bold  streams  untamed  by  helm  or  prow, 
And  rocks  of  gold  and  diamonds,  thou 
To  thankless  Spain  shalt  show. 

Courage.  World-finder!  Thou  hast  need! 

In  Fate's  unfolding  scroll, 
Dark  woes  and  ingrate  wrongs  I  read, 

That  rack  the  noble  soul. 
On!  on!  Creation's  secrets  probe, 

Then  drink  thy  cup  of  scorn, 
And  wrapped  in  fallen  Caesar's  robe, 
Sleep  like  that  master  of  the  globe, 

All  glorious,  —  yet  forlorn. 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOUKNEY. 


The  council  convened  at  Salamanca  and  ex 
amined  Columbus;  but  it  presented  to  him  an 
almost  impenetrable  wall  of  bigotry  and  prejudice. 
Long  delays  and  adjournments  followed;  and  for 
three  years  the  suppliant  was  put  off  with  excuses 
and  evasions.  At  last,  worn  out  with  waiting  and 
anxiety,  he  appealed  to  Ferdinand  to  give  him  a 
definite  answer. 


COLUMBUS  TO  FERDINAND 

[January,  1491] 

ILLUSTRIOUS  monarch  of  Iberia's  soil, 
Too  long  I  wait  permission  to  depart; 
Sick  of  delays,  I  beg  thy  list'ning  ear  — 
Shine  forth  the  patron  and  the  prince  of 
art. 

While  yet  Columbus  breathes  the  vital  air, 
Grant  his  request  to  pass  the  western  main: 
Reserve  this  glory  for  thy  native  soil, 
And  what  must  please  thee  more  —  for  thy 
own  reign. 

Of  this  huge  globe,  how  small  a  part  we 

know  — 
Does  heaven  their  worlds  to  western  suns 

deny  ?  — 

How  disproportion'd  to  the  mighty  deep 
The  lands  that  yet  in  human  prospect  lie! 

Does  Cynthia,  when  to  western  skies  arriv'd, 
Spend  her  sweet  beam  upon  the  barren  main, 
And  ne'er  illume  with  midnight  splendor,  she, 
The  natives  dancing  on  the  lightsome 
green?  — 

Should  the  vast  circuit  of  the  world  contain 
Such  wastes  of  ocean,  and  such  scanty  land  ? — • 


10 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY 


'T  is  reason's  voice  that  bids  me  think  not  so, 
I  think  more  nobly  of  the  Almighty  hand. 

Does  yon  fair  lamp  trace  half  the  circle  round 
To  light  the  waves  and  monsters  of  the 

seas  ?  — 

No  —  be  there  must  beyond  the  billowy  waste 
Islands,  and  men,  and  animals,  and  trees. 

An  unremitting  flame  my  breast  inspires 
To  seek  new  lands  amidst  the  barren  waves, 
Where  falling  low,  the  source  of  day  descends, 
And  the  blue  sea  his  evening  visage  laves. 

Hear,  in  his  tragic  lay,  Cordova's  sage: 

"2  he  time  shall  come,  when  numerous  years 

are  past, 

The  ocean  shall  dissolve  the  bonds  of  things, 
And  an  extended  region  rise  at  last ; 

"  And  Typhis  shall  disclose  the  mighty  land 
Far,  far  away,  where  none  have  rov'd  before ; 
Nor  shall  the  world's  remotest  region  be 
Gibraltar's  rock,  or  Thule's  savage  shore." 

Fir'd  at  the  theme,  I  languish  to  depart, 
Supply  the  barque,  and  bid  Columbus  sail; 
He  fears  no  storms  upon  the  unlravell'd  deep; 
Reason  shall  steer,  and  skill  disarm  the  gale. 

Nor  does  he  dread  to  lose  the  intended  course, 
Though  far  from  land  the  reeling  galley  stray, 
And  skies  above  and  gulphy  seas  below 
Be  the  sole  objects  seen  for  many  a  day. 

Think  not  that  Nature  has  unveil'd  in  vain 
The  mystic  magnet  to  the  rrortal  eye: 
So  late  have  we  the  guiding  needle  plann'd 
Only  to  sail  beneath  our  native  sky  ? 

Fre  this  was  found,  the  ruling  power  of  all 
Found  for  our  use  an  ocean  in  the  land, 
Its  breadth  so  small  we  could  not  wander  long, 
Nor  long  be  absent   from   the   neighboring 
strand. 

Short  was  the  course,  and  guided  by  the  stars, 
But  stars  no  more  shall  point  our  daring  way; 
The  Bear  shall  sink,  and  every  guard  be 

drown'd, 
And  great  Arcturus  scarce  escape  the  sea, 

When  southward  we  shall  steer  —  O  grant 

my  wish, 
Supply  the  barque,  and  bid  Columbus  sail, 


He  dreads  no  tempests  on  the  untravell'd  deep, 
Reason  shall  sieer,  aud  skill  ditaim  the  gale. 
PHILIP  IKENEAU. 


Early  in  1491  the  council  of  Salamanca  re 
ported  that  the  proposed  enterprise  was  vain  ai.d 
impossible  of  execution,  and  Ferdinand  accepted 
the  decision.  Indignant  at  thought  of  the  years 
he  had  wasted,  Columbus  started  for  Paris,  to  lay 
his  plan  before  the  King  of  France.  He  was  ac 
companied  by  his  son,  Diego,  and  stopped  one 
night  at  the  convent  of  La  Rabida,  near  Palos,  to 
ask  for  food  and  shelter.  The  prior,  Juan  Perez 
de  Marchena,  became  interested  in  his  project, 
detained  him,  and  finally  secured  for  him  another 
audience  of  Isabella. 


COLUMBUS  AT  THE   CONVENT 

[July,  1491] 

DREARY  and  brown  the  night  comes  down, 

Gloomy,  without  a  star. 
On  Palos  town  the  night  comes  down; 
The  day  departs  with  a  stormy  frown; 

The  sad  sea  moans  afar. 

A  convent-gate  is  near;  't  is  late; 

Ting-ling!  the  bell  they  ring. 
They  ring  the  bell,  they  ask  for  bread  — 
"Just  for  my  child,"  the  father  said. 

Kind  hands  the  bread  will  bring. 

White  was  his  hair,  his  mien  was  fair, 

His  look  was  calm  and  great. 
The  porter  ran  and  called  a  friar; 
The  friar  made  haste  and  told  the  prior: 

The  prior  came  to  the  gate. 

He  took  them  in,  he  gave  them  food; 

The  traveller's  dreams  he  heard; 
And  fast  the  midnight  moments  flew, 
And  fast  the  good  man's  wonder  grew, 

And  all  his  heart  was  stirred. 

The  child  the  while,  with  soft,  sweet  smile. 

Forgetful  of  all  sorrow, 
Lay  soundly  sleeping  in  his  bed. 
The  good  man  kissed  him  then,  and  said: 

"You  leave  us  not  to-morrow! 

"I  pray  you  rest  the  convent's  guest; 

The  child  shall  be  our  own  — 
A  precious  care,  while  you  prepare 
Your  business  with  the  court,  and  lear 

Your  message  to  the  throne." 


THE    FINAL   STRUGGLE 


ii 


And  so  his  guest  he  comforted. 

O  wise,  good  prior!  to  you, 
Who  cheered  the  stranger's  darkest  days, 
And  helped  him  on  his  way,  what  praise 

And  gratitude  are  due! 

JOHN  T.  TEOWBRIDGE. 


Isabella  and  Ferdinand  were  with  their  army 
before  Granada,  and  received  Columbus  well;  but 
his  demands  for  emoluments  and  honors  in  the 
event  of  success  were  pronounced  absurd;  the 
negotiations  were  broken  off,  and  again  Columbus 
started  for  France.  The  few  converts  to  his  theo 
ries  were  in  despair,  and  one  of  them,  Luis  de 
Santangel,  receiver  of  the  ecclesiastical  revenues 
of  Aragon,  obtained  an  audience  of  the  Queen, 
and  enkindled  her  patriotic  spirit.  When  Ferdi 
nand  still  hesitated,  she  exclaimed,  "I  undertake 
the  enterprise  for  my  own  crown  of  Castile.  I  will 
pledge  my  jewels  to  raise  the  money  that  is 
needed ! "  Santangel  assured  her  that  he  himself 
was  ready  to  provide  the  money,  and  advanced 
seventeen  thousand  florins  from  the  coffers  of 
Aragon,  so  that  Ferdinand  really  paid  for  the  ex 
pedition,  after  all. 


THE   FINAL  STRUGGLE 

From  "The  New  World" 
[January  6  —  April  17,  1492] 

YET  had  his  sun  not  risen;  from  his  lips 
Fell  in  swift  fervid  accents  his  desire, 
And    Talavera's   eyes    of    smouldering 

fire 

Shone  with  a  myriad  doubts,  a  dark  eclipse 
Of  faith  hung  round  him,  and  the  longed- 
for  ships 
Ploughed  but  the  ocean  of  his  star-lit 

dreams ; 
Time  had  not  tried  his  soul  enough  with 

whips 

And  scorns,  for  so  the  rigid  Master  deems 
He  makes  his  servants  fit 
For  the  hard  toils  which  knit 
The  perfect  garment,  firm  and  without 

seams, 
The  world  shall  wear  at  last;  his  hurt 

brain  teems 

With  indignation  and  he  turns  away 
Undaunted,   and    he   girds    him    for   the 

fray 
Once  more;  but  first  he  hears  the  words  of 

his  good  friend, 

Marchena,  strong  with  trust  in  the  far-shining 
end. 


His  wanderings  reached  at  last  the  lonely 

door 
Of  calm  La  Rabida;   there  the  silence 

came 
Grateful    upon    his    grief's    consuming 

flame; 
The  simple  cloisters  gave  him  peace  once 

more, 

And  the  live  ocean  rolled  up  to  the  shore 
In  ceaseless  voice  of  promise;  through 

the  pines 
The  sun  looked  down  benignant,  and  the 

roar 

Of  the  far  world  of  rivalries  declines 
Into  an  inward  murmur 
With  each  day  growing  firmer, 
Whose  sense  is  conquest  at  the  last;  as 

shines 

A  lamp  across  a  rocky  path's  confines, 
Making  the  outlet  clear,  Juan  Perez'  faith 
Who  heard  him  and  conceived  his  words 

no  wraith 

Of  fevered  fancy  but  the  very  truth,  was  light 
To  bring  the  Queen  to  know  his  purposes 
aright. 

O  noble  priest  and  friend!  you  reached 

the  court 
And  turned  the  Queen  from  conquest's 

mid  career 
To   hearken;   other  triumphs  glittered 

clear 

Before  her,  and  again  from  Huelva's  port 
The  seeker  came;  he  saw  Granada's  fort 
Open  its  gates  reluctant,  and  the  King, 
El  Zogoibi,  bewail  his  bitter  sort 
And  loss  which  made  the  rich  Te  Deuma 
ring 

When  on  La  Vela's  tower 
The  cross  bloomed  like  e.  flower 
Of  heaven's  own  growing;  but  the  sud 
den  spring, 
Loud  with  birds  silent  long  that  strove 

to  sing, 

After  the  winter's  weary  voice'ess  reign, 
Was  overcast  with  storms  of  co'd  disdain; 
Haughtily  forth  he  fared  and  reached  Gra 
nada's  gates 

When  the  clouds  lifted  and  the  persecuting 
fates 

Relented  from  their  fury;  for  the  Queen 
Listened  unto  the  urgings  manifold 
Of  Santangel,  and  counsel,   wise  and 
bold, 


12 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Of  the  far-seeing  Marchioness,  whose  keen 

Divinings  pierced  the  misty  ocean's  screen 

And  felt  the  deed  must  surely  come  to 

pass; 
So  they  recalled  him,  and  his  life's  changed 

scene 

Grew  bright  with  blooms  and  smile  of 
thickening  grass; 
O  royal  woman  then 
Your  hand  received  again 
The  keys  of  a  great  realm;  in  the  clear 

glass 

Of  actions  yet  to  be  whose  fires  amass 
Infinite  stores  of  impulse  toward  the  good, 
Your  image  permanent  lies  ;  forth  from  the 

wood 
Of    beasts    malicious    and  the  unrelenting 

dread 

You  showed  the  way,  but  sought  not  from 
the  gloom  to  tread. 

The  wind  was  fair,  the  ships  lay  in  the 

bay, 
And  the  blue  sky  looked  down  upon  the 

earth; 
Prophetic    time    laughed    toward    the 

nearing  birth 
Of  the  strong  child  with  whom  should  come 

a  day 
That  dulled  all  earlier  hours.  Forth  on  the 

way 
With  holy  blessings  said,  and   bellied 

sails, 
And  mounting  joy  that  knows  not  let  nor 

stay! 

Lo  !  the  undaunted  purpose  never  fails  ! 
O  patient  master,  seer, 
For  whom  the  far  is  near, 
The  vision  true,  and  the  mere  present 

pales 
Its  lustre,  what  mild  seas  and  blossomed 

vales 

Awaited  you  ?  haply  a  paradise 
But  not  the  one  which  drew  your  swerve- 

less  eyes; 
Could  you  have  known  what  lands  were  there 

beyond  the  main, 

You  surelier  would  have  turned  to  gladsome- 
ness  from  pain. 

Louis  JAMES  BLOCK. 


With  the  greatest  difficulty,  Columbus  managed 
to  secure  three  little  vessels,  the  Santa  Maria,  the 
Pints,  and  the  Nina,  and  to  enlist  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  men  for  the  enterprise.  Early  in  the 


morning  of  Friday,  August  3,  1492,  this  tiny  fleet 
sailed  out  from  Palos  and  turned  their  prows  to 
the  west. 


STEER,   BOLD   MARINER,   ON! 

[August  3,  1492] 

STEER,  bold    mariner,   on!    albeit  witlings 

deride  thee, 
And  the  steersman  drop  idly  his  hand  at  the 

helm. 
Ever  and  ever  to  westward!  there  must  the 

coast  be  discovered, 

If  it  but  lie  distinct,  luminous  lie  in  thy  mind. 
Trust  to  the  God  that  leads  thee,  and  follow 

the  sea  that  is  silent; 
Did  it  not  yet  exist,  now  would  it  rise  from 

the  flood. 
Nature  with  Genius  stands  united  in  league 

everlasting; 
What  is  promised  by  one,  surely  the  other 

performs. 

FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER. 


The  fleet  reached  the  Canaries  without  misad 
venture,  but  when  the  shores  of  Ferro  sank  from 
sight,  the  sailors  gave  themselves  up  for  lost. 
Their  terror  increased  day  by  day;  the  compass 
behaved  strangely,  the  boats  became  entangled 
in  vast  meadows  of  floating  seaweed;  and  finally 
the  trade-winds  wafted  them  so  steadily  westward 
that  they  became  convinced  they  could  never 
return.  By  October  4  there  were  ominous  signs 
of  mutiny,  and  finally,  on  the  llth,  affairs  reached 
a  crisis. 

THE   TRIUMPH1 

From  "Psalm  of  the  West" 
[Dawn,  October  12,  1492] 

SANTA  MARIA,  well  thou  tremblest  down  the 

wave, 

Thy  Pinta  far  abow,  thy  Nina  nigh  astern: 
Columbus  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and, 

passing  grave, 
Yearns  o'er  the  sea  as  tones  o'er  under- 

silence  yearn. 
Heartens  his  heart  as  friend  befriends  his 

friend  less  brave, 

Makes  burn  the  faiths  that  cool,  and  cools 
the  doubts  that  burn :  — 

1  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright, 
1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


THE   TRIUMPH 


"'Twixt  this  and  dawn,  three  hours  my  soul 

will  smite 

With  prickly  seconds,  or  less  tolerably 
With  dull-blade  minutes  flatwise  slapping 

me. 
Wait,   Heart!   Time    moves.  —  Thou    lithe 

young  Western  Night, 

Just-crowned  king,  slow  riding  to  thy  right, 
Would  God  that  I  might  straddle  mutiny 
Calm  as  thou  sitt'st  yon  never-managed 

sea, 

Balk'st  with  his  balking,  fliest  with  his  flight, 
Giv'st  supple  to  his  rearings  and  his  falls, 
Nor  dropp'st  one  coronal  star  above  thy 

brow 
Whilst  ever  dayward  thou  art  steadfast 

drawn ! 
Yea,  would  I  rode  these  mad  contentious 

brawls 

No  damage  taking  from  their  If  and  How, 
Nor  no  result  save  galloping  to  my  Dawn ! 

"  My  Dawn  ?  my  Dawn  ?  How  if    it    never 

break? 

How  if  this  West  by  other  Wests  is  pieced, 
And  these  by  vacant  Wests  on  Wests  in 
creased  — 

One  Pain  of  Space,  with  hollow  ache  on  ache 
Throbbing  and  ceasing  not  for  Christ's  own 

sake?  — 
Big  perilous  theorem,  hard  for  king  and 

priest : 

Pursue  the  West  but  long  enough,  '£  is  East  I 
Oh,  if  this  watery  world  no  turning  take! 
Oh,  if  for  all  my  logic,  all  my  dreams, 
Provings  of  that  which  is  by  that  which 

seems, 
Fears,  hopes,  chills,  heats,  hastes,  patiences, 

droughts,  tears, 
Wife-grievings,   slights   on   love,   embezzled 

years, 
Hates,  treaties,  scorns,  upliftings,  loss  and 

gain,  — 

This  earth,  no  sphere,  be  all  one  sickening 
plane! 

"Or,  haply,  how  if  this  contrarious  West, 
That  me  by  turns  hath  starved,  by  turns 

hath  fed, 

Embraced,  disgraced,  beat  back,  solicited, 
Have  no  fixed  heart  of  Law  within  his  breast, 
Or  with  some  different  rhythm  doth  e'er 

contest 

Nature  in  the  East?    Why,  't  is  but  three 
weeks  fled 


I  saw  my  Judas  needle  shake  his  head 
And  flout  the  Pole  that,  East,  he  Lord  con 
fessed  ! 
God!  if  this  West  should  own  some  other 

Pole, 

And  with  his  tangled  ways  perplex  my  soul 
Until  the  maze  grow  mortal,  and  I  die 
Where  distraught  Nature  clean  hath  gone 

astray, 
On  earth  some  other  wit  than  Time 's  at 

play, 
Some  other  God  than  mine  above  the  sky ! 

"Now  speaks  mine  other  heart  with  cheerier 

seeming : 

Ho,  Admiral!  o'er-def diking  to  thy  crew 
Against  thyself,  thyself  far  overfew 
To  front  yon  multitudes  of  rebel  scheming  ? 
Come,   ye   wild   twenty  years  of   heavenly 

dreaming ! 
Come,  ye  wild  weeks  since  first  this  canvas 

drew 

Out  of  vexed  Palos  ere  the  dawn  was  blue, 
O'er  milky  waves  about  the  bows  full-cream 
ing! 

Come  set  me  round  with  many  faithful  spears 
Of  confident  remembrance —  how  I  crushed 
Cat-lived  rebellions,  pit  fulled  treasons, 

hushed 
Scared  husbands'  heart-break  cries  on  distant 

wives, 

Made  cowards  blush  at  whining  for  their  lives, 
Watered  my  parching  souls,  and  dried  their 
tears. 

"  Ere  we  Gomera  cleared,  a  coward  cried, 
Turn,  turn :  here  be  three  caravel*  ahead, 
From  Portugal,  to  take  us:  we  are  dead! — 
Hold  Westward,  pilot,  calmly  I  replied. 
So  when  the  last  land  down  the  horizon  died, 
Go  back,  go  back!  they  prayed:  our  hearts 

are  lead.  — 

Friends,  we  are  bound  into  the  West,  I  said. 
Then  passed  the  wreck  of  a  mast  upon  our 

side. 
See  (so  they  wept)  God* s  Warning  !  Admiral, 

turn!  — 
Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the 

West. 
Then  down  the  night  we  saw  the  meteor 

burn. 

So  do  the  very  heavens  in  fire  protest: 
Good  Admiral,   put  about!  O   Spain,  dear 

Spain  !  — 
Hold  straight  into  the  West,  I  said  again. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"Next  drive  we  o'er  the  slimy-weeded  sea. 

Lo  I  herebeneath  (another  coward  cries) 

'1  he  cursed  land  of  sunk  Atlantis  lies  1 
This  slime  will  suck  us  down  —  turn  while 

thourt  free  1  — 
But  no  !  I  said,  1'  reedom  bears  West  for  me  ! 

Yet  when  the  long-time  stagnant  winds 
arise, 

And  day  by  day  the  keel  to  westward  flies, 
My  Good  my  people's  111  doth  come  to  be: 
-*•  Ever  the  winds  into  the  West  do  blow ; 

Never  a  ship,  once  turned,  might  homeward 

go; 

Meanwhile  we  speed  into  the  lonesome  main, 
t  or  Christ's  sake,  parley,  Admiral  1  Turn, 
*  before 

We  sail  outside  all  bounds  of  help  from  pain  1 — 
Our  help  is  in  the  West,  I  said  once  more. 

"So  when  there  came  a  mighty  cry  of  Land! 
.  And  we  clomb  up  and  saw,  and  shouted 

strong 

Salve  Regina  1  all  the  ropes  along, 
But   knew  at  morn  how  that  a  counterfeit 

band 

Of  level  clouds  had  aped  a  silver  strand; 
So  when  we  heard  the  orchard-bird's  small 

song,      • 

And  all  the  people  cried,  A  hellish  throng 
To  tempt  its  onward  by  the  Devil  planned, 
Yea,  all  from  hell  —  keen  heron,  fresh  green 

weeds, 

Pelican,  tunny-fish,  fair  tapering  reeds, 
Lie-telling  lands  that  ever  shine  and  die 
In  clouds  of  nothing  round  the  empty  sky. 
Tired  Admiral,  get  thee  from  this  hell,  and 

rest !  — 
Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the  West. 

"I  marvel  how  mine  eye,  ranging  the  Night, 
From  its  big  circling  ever  •  bsently 
Returns,  thou  large  Ipw  Star,  to  fix  on 

thee. 

*faria  !   Star?    No  star:  a  Light,  a  Light! 
Wouldst  leap  ashore,  Heart?   Yonder  burns 

—  a  Light. 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  wake!  come  up  to  me. 

I  prithee  stand  and  gaze  about  the  sea: 

ft  hat  seest  ?   Admiral,  like  as  land  —  a  Light  1 

Well!    Sanchez  of  Segovia,  come  and  try: 

What  seest?    Admiral,  naught  but  sea  and 

sky  ! 

Well !  but  7  saw  It.  Wait !  the  Pinta's  gun ! 
Wrhy,  look,  'tis  dawn,  the  land  is  clear: 
't  is  done ! 


Two  dawns  do  break  at  once  from  Time's 

full  hand  — 
God's,    East  —  mine,    West:    good    friends, 

beJjold  my  Land!" 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


At  daybreak  of  Friday,  October  12  (N.  S.  Oc 
tober  23),  the  boats  were  lowered  and  Columbus, 
with  a  large  part  of  his  company,  went  afhtre, 
wild  with  exultation.  They  found  that  they  were 
on  a  small  island,  and  Columbus  named  it  San 
Salvador.  It  was  one  of  the  Bahamas,  but  which 
one  is  not  certainly  known. 

COLUMBUS 

BEHIND  him  lay  thevgray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:  "ISow  must  we  pray, 
>     For  lo  !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Why,  say  'Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!'" 


men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan,  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn  ?  " 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

'  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on  !  '  " 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  mighl  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said: 
"Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  ar.d  all  my  men  fall  dead.      ./ 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  ihe?e  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  sppjik,  brave  Admiral,  rp  eak  and  say"  — 

He  said:  "Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  onP' 

They  sailed.    They  sailed.    Then  spake  the 
mate:  „.• 

"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  lifts  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite  ! 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word: 

W7hat  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword: 

"  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  and  on  !  " 

Then,  pale  nnd  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 
And  peered  through  darkness.  Ah,  that  night 


THE   THANKSGIVING   FOR   AMERICA 


Of  all  dark  nights !    And  then  a  speck  — 
A  light!  a  light!  a  light!  a  light! 

It  grew,  a  starlit  flag,  unfurled ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 

He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world 
Its  grandest  lesson:  "On!  sail  on!" 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


Columbus  reached  Spain  again  on  March  15, 
1493,  and  at  once  sent  word  of  his  arrival  to  Ferdi 
nand  and  Isabella,  who  were  at  Barcelona.  He 
was  summoned  to  appear  before  them  and  was 
received  with  triumphal  honors.  The  King  and 
Queen  arose  at  his  approach,  directed  him  to  seat 
himself  in  their  presence,  and  listened  with  in 
tense  interest  to  his  story  of  the  voyage.  When 
he  had  finished,  they  sank  to  their  knees,  as  did 
all  present,  and  thanked  G6d  for  this  mark  of  his 
favor. 

THE  THANKSGIVING  FOR  AMERICA 

[Barcelona,  April,  1493] 


'Tw.vs  night  upon  the  Darro. 
The  risen  moon  above  the  silvery  tower 
Of  Comares  shone,  the  silver  sun  of  night, 
And  poured  its  lustrous  splendors  through 

the  halls  N 

Of  the  Alhambra. 

The  air  was  breathless. 
Yet  filled  with  ceaseless  songs  of  nightingales, 
And  odors  sweet  of  falling  orange  blooms; 
The  misty  lamps  were  burning  odorous  oil; 
The  uncurtained  balconies  were  full  of  life, 
And  laugh  and  song,  and  airy  castanets 
And  gay  guitars. 

Afar  Sierras  rose, 
Domes,   towers,   and   pinnacles,   over   royal 

heights, 
Whose  crowns  were  gemmed  with  stars. 

The  Generalift'e, 

The  summer  palace  of  old  Moorish  kings 
In  vanished  years,  stood  sentinel  afar, 
A  pile  of  shade,  .as  brighter  grew  the  moon, 
Impearling   fountain   sprays,   and   shimmer 
ing 

On  seas  of  citron  orchards  cool  and  green, 
And  terraces  embowered  with  vernal  vines 
And  breathing  flowers. 

In  shadowy  arcades 

Were  loitering  priests,  and  here  and  there 
A  water-carrier  passed  with  tinkling  bells. 

There  came  a  peal  of  horns 
That  woke  Granada,  city  of  delights, 


From  its  long  moonlight  reverie.    Again:  — 
The  suave  lute  ceased  to  play,  the  casta- 

net; 
The  water-bearer   stopped,   and  ceased   his 

song 
The  wandering  troubadour. 

Then  rent  the  air 

Another  joyous  peal,  and  oped  the  gates 
And  entered  there  a  train  of  cavaliers, 
Their  helmets  glittering  in  the  low  red  moon> 

The  streets  and  balconies 
All  danced  with  wondering  life.    Th6  train 

moved  on. 

And  filled  the  air  again  the  horns  melodious, 
And  loud  the  heralds  shouted:  — 

"  Thy  name,  O  Fernando,  through  all  earth 
shall  be  sounded, 

Columbus  has  triumphed,  his  joes  are  con 
founded  ! " 

A  silence  followed. 
Could   such   tidings   be?    Men   heard  and 

whispered. 

Eyes  glanced  to  eyes,  feet  uncertain  moved, 
Never  on  mortal  ears  had  fallen  words 
L.ke  these.    And  was  the  earth  a  star  ? 

On  marched  the  cavaliers, 
And  pealed  again  the  horns,  and  again  cried 
T:ie  heralds:  — : 

"  Thy  name,  Isabella,  through  all  earth  shall 
be  sounded, 

Columbus  has  triumphed,  his  foes  are  con 
founded  T' 

All  hearts  were  thrilled. 
"Isabella!"    That  name  breathed  faith  and 

hope 

And  lofty  aim.   Emo'ion  swayed  the  crowds; 
Tears   flowed,   and   acclamations   rose,   and 

rushed 

The  wondering  multitudes  toward  the  plaza. 
"Isabella!    Isabella!"  it  filled 
The  air  —  that  one  word  "  Isabella ! " 

And  now 
'T  is  noon  of  night.    The  moon  hangs  near 

the  earth  — 

A  golden  moon  in  golden  air;  the  peaks 
Like  silver  tents  of  shadowy  sentinels 
Glint  'gainst  the  sky.   The  plaza  gleams  and 

surges 
Like   a   sea.    The   joyful   horns  peal   fortn 

again. 
And  falls  a  hush,  and  cry  the  heralds :  — 


i6 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"  Thy  name,  Isabella,  shall  be  praised  by  all 

the  living ; 
Haste,  haste  to  Barcelona,  and  join  the  Great 

Thanksgiving  I" 

What  nights  had  seen  Granada! 
Yet  never  one  like  this !  The  moon  went  down 
And  fell  the  wings  of  shadow,  yet  the  streets 
Still  swarmed  with  people  hurrying   on   and 
on. 


Morn  came, 
With  bursts  of  nightingales  and  quivering 

fires. 

The  cavaliers  rode  forth  toward  Barcelona. 
The  city  followed,  throbbing  with  delight. 
The  happy  troubadour,  the  muleteer, 
The  craftsmen  all,  the  boy  and  girl,  and  e'en 
The  mother  —  't  was  a  soft  spring  morn ; 
The  fairest  skies  of  earth  those  April  morns 
In  Andalusia.    Long  was  the  journey, 
But  the  land  was  flowers  and  the  nights  were 

not, 

And  birds  sang  all  the  hours,  and  breezes  cool 
Fanned  all  the  ways  along  the  sea. 

The  roads  were  filled 
With  hurrying  multitudes.    For  well  't  was 

known 

That  he,  the  conqueror,  viceroy  of  the  isles, 
Was  riding  from  Seville  to  meet  the  king. 
And  what  were  conquerors  before  to   him 

whose  eye 
Had  seen  the  world  a  star,  and  found  the  star 

a  world? 

Once  he  had  walked 
The  self-same  ways,  roofless  and  poor  and 

sad, 

A  beggar  at  old  convent  doors,  and  heard 
The  very  children  jeer  him  in  the  streets, 
And  ate  his  crust  and  made  his  roofless  bed 
Upon  the  flowers  beside  his  boy,  and  prayed, 
And  found  in  trust  a  pillow  radiant 
With  dreams  immortal.    Now? 


That  was  a  glorious  day 
That  dawned  on  Barcelona.    Banners  filled 
The  thronging  towers,  the  old  bells  rung,  and 

blasts 

Of  lordly  trumpets  seemed  to  reach  the  sky 
Cerulean.    AH  Spain  had  gathered  there, 
And    waited    there    his    coming;    Castilian 

knights, 
Gay  cavaliers,  hidalgos  young,  and  e'en  the  old 


Puissant  grandees  of  far  Aragon, 

With  glittering  mail,  and  waving  plumes,  and 

all 

The  peasant  multitude  with  bannerets 
And  charms  and  flowers. 

Beneath  pavilions 

Of  brocades  of  gold,  the  Court  had  met. 
The  dual  crowns  of  Leon  old  and  proud  Cas 
tile 
There  waited  him,  the  peasant  mariner. 

The  trumpets  waited 
Near  the  open  gates ;  the  minstrels  young  and 

fair 

Upon  the  tapestried  and  arrased  walls, 
And  everywhere  from  all  the  happy  provinces 
The  wandering  troubadours. 

Afar  was  heard 

A  cry,  a  long  acclaim.    Afar  was  seen 
A    proud    and   stately   steed   with    nodding 

plumes, 

Bridled  with  gold,  whose  rider  stately  rode, 
And  still  afar  a  long  and  sinuous  train 
Of  silvery  cavaliers.    A  shout  arose, 
And  all  the  city,  all  the  vales  and  hills, 
With  silver  trumpets  rung. 

He  came,  the  Genoese, 

With  reverent  look  and  calm  and  lofty  mien, 
And  saw  the  wondering  eyes  and  heard  the 

cries 

And  trumpet  peals,  as  one  who  followed  still 
Some  Guide  unseen. 

Before  his  steed 

Crowned  Indians  marched  with  lowly  faces, 
And  wondered  at  the  new  world  that  they 

saw; 
Gay  parrots  shouted  from  their  gold-bound 

arms, 
And   from   their  crests   swept  airy   plumes. 

The  sun 

Shone  full  in  splendor  on  the  scene,  and  here 
The  old  and  new  world  met.    But  — 


Hark!  the  heralds! 
How  they  thrill  all  hearts  and  fill  all  eyes  with 

tears ! 

The  very  air  seems  throbbing  with  delight; 
Hark!  hark!  they   cry,    in   chorus   all   they 

cry:  — 

"A  Castilla  y  a  Leon,  a  Castillo  y  a  Leon, 
Nuevo  mundo  dio  Colon  /" 

Every  heart  now  beats  with  his, 
The  stately  rider  on  whose  calm  face  shines 


COLUMBUS   IN   CHAINS 


A  heaven-born  inspiration.    Still  the  shout: 
"Nuet'o  mundo  dio  Colon!"  how  it  rings! 
From  wall  to  wall,  from  knights  and  cava 
liers, 

And  from  the  multitudinous  throngs, 
A  mighty  chorus  of  the  vales  and  hills ! 
"A  Castillo,  y  a  Leon!" 

And  now  the  golden  steed 
Draws   near  the  throne;   the  crowds   move 

back,  and  rise 

The  reverent  crowns  of  Leon  and  Castile; 
And  stands  before  the  tear-filled  eyes  of  all 
The  multitudes  the  form  of  Isabella. 
Semiramis  ?    Zenobia  ?    What  were  they 
To  her,  as  met  her  eyes  again  the  eyes  of 

him 

Into  whose  hands  her  love  a  year  before 
Emptied  its  jewels! 

He  told  his  tale: 

The  untried  deep,  the  green  Sargasso  Sea, 
The  varying  compass,  the  affrighted  crews, 
The  hymn  they  sung  on  every  doubtful  eve, 
The  sweet  hymn  to  the  Virgin.    How  there 

came 

The  land  birds  singing,  and  the  drifting  weeds, 
How  broke  the  morn  on  fair  San  Salvador, 
How  the  Te  Deum  on  that  isle  was  sung, 
And  how  the  cross  was  lifted  in  the  name 
Of  Leon  and  Castile.    And  then  he  turned 
His  face  towards  Heaven,  "O  Queen!    O 

Queen ! 

There  kingdoms  wait  the  triumphs  of  the 
cross!" 


Then  Isabella  rose, 

With  face  illumined :  then  overcome  with  joy 
She  sank  upon  her  knees,  and  king  and  court 
And  nobles  rose  and  knelt  beside  her, 
And  followed  them  the  sobbing  multitude; 
Then  came  a  burst  of  joy,  a  chorus  grand, 
And  mighty  antiphon  — 

"We  praise  thee,  Lord,  and,  Lord,  acknow 
ledge  thee, 
And  give  thee  glory!  —  Holy,  Holy,  Holy!" 

loud  and  long  it  swelled  and  thrilled  the  air, 
That  first  Thanksgiving  for  the  new-found 
world ! 

VI 

The  twilight  roses  bloomed 
In  the  far  skies  o'er  Barcelona. 
The  gentle  Indians  came  and  stood  before 


The    throne,   and    smiled    the   queen,   and 

said: 

"I  see  my  gems  again."    The  shadow  fell, 
And  trilled  all  night  beneath  the  moon  and 

stars 
The  happy  nightingales. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


Royal  favor  is  capricious  and  Columbus  had  his 
full  share  of  enemies  at  court.  These,  in  the  end, 
succeeded  in  gaining  the  King's  ear;  Columbus  was 
arrested  in  San  Domingo  and  sent  back  to  Spain 
in  chains.  Isabella  ordered  them  struck  off,  and 
promised  him  that  he  should  be  reimbursed  for 
his  losses  and  restored  to  all  his  dignities ;  but  the 
promise  was  never  kept. 


COLUMBUS  IN   CHAINS 

[August,  1500] 

ARE  these  the  honors  they  reserve  for  me. 
Chains  for  the  man  who  gave  new  worlds  to 

Spain ! 
Rest  here,  my  swelling  heart !  —  O  kings,  O 

queens, 

Patrons  of  monsters,  and  their  progeny, 
Authors   of   wrong,    and   slaves   to   fortune 

merely ! 

Why  was  I  seated  by  my  prince's  side, 
Honor'd,  caress'd   like    some   first  peer  of 

Spain  ? 

Was  it  that  I  might  fall  most  suddenly 
From  honor's  summit  to  the  sink  of  scandal  ? 
'T  is  done,   't  is  done !  —  what  madness  is 

ambition ! 

What  is  there  in  that  little  breath  of  men, 
Which  they  call  Fame,  that  should  induce 

the  brave 

To  forfeit  ease  and  that  domestic  bliss 
Which  is  the  lot  of  happy  ignorance, 
Less  glorious  aims,  and  dull  humility  ?  — 
Whoe'er  thou  art  that  shalt  aspire  to  honor, 
And  on  the  strength  and  vigor  of  the  mind 
Vainly  depending,  court  a  monarch's  favor, 
Pointing  the  way  to  vast  extended  empire; 
First  count  your  pay  to  be  ingratitude, 
Then  chains  and  prisons,  and  disgrace  like 

mine! 
Each  wretched  pilot  now  shall  spread  his 

sails, 

And  treading  in  my  footsteps,  hail  new  worlds, 
Which,  but  for  me,  had  still  been  empty 

visions. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


i8 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


On  November  7,  1504,  Columbus  landed  in 
Spain  after  a  fourth  voyage  to  America,  during 
•which  he  had  endured  sufferings  and  privations 
almost  beyond  description.  He  was  a  broken 
man,  and  the  last  blow  was  the  death  of  Isabella, 
nineteen  days  after  he  reached  Seville.  Her  death 
left  him  without  patron  or  protector,  and  the  last 
eighteen  months  of  his  life  were  spent  in  sickness 
and  poverty.  He  died  at  Valladolid,  May  20, 1506. 


COLUMBUS   DYING 

[May  20,  1506] 

HARK  !  do  I  hear  again  the  roar 

Of  the  tides  by  the  Indies  sweeping  down  ? 
Or  is  it  the  surge  from  the  viewless  shore 

That  swells  to  bear  me  to  my  crown  ? 
Life  is  hollow  and  cold  and  drear 

With  smiles  that  darken  and  hopes  that 

flee; 
And,  far  from  its  winds  that  faint  and  veer, 

I  am  ready  to  sail  the  vaster  sea! 

Lord,  Thou  knowest  I  love  Thee  best; 

And  that  scorning  peril  and  toil  and  pain, 
I  held  my  way  to  the  mystic  West, 

Glory  for  Thee  and  Thy  Church  to  gain. 
And  Thou  didst  lead  me,  only  Thou, 

Cheering  my  heart  in  cloud  and  calm, 
Till  the  dawn  my  glad,  victorious  prow 

Greeted  Thii:e  isles  of  bloom  and  balm. 

And  then,  O  gracious,  glorious  Lord, 

I   saw   Thy   face,  and   all   heaven    came 

nigh 

And  my  soul  was  lost  in  that  rich  reward, 
And  ravished  with  hope  of  the  bliss  on 

high, 

So,  I  can  meet  the  sovereign's  frown  — 
My  dear  Queen  gone  —  with  a  large  dis 
dain; 

For  the  time  will  come  when  his  chief  re 
nown 

Will  be  that  I  sailed   from  his  realm  of 
Spain. 

I  have  found  new  Lands  —  a  World,  maybe. 

Whose  splendor  will  yet  the  Old  outshine; 
And  life  and  death  are  alike  to  me, 

For  earth  will  honor,  and  heaven  is  mine 
Is  mine !  —  What  songs  of  sweet  accord ! 

What  billows  that  nearer,  gentler  roll! 
Is  mine!  —  Into  Thy  hands,  O  Lord, 

Into  Thy  hands  I  give  my  soul ! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


COLOIEUS 

GIVE  me  white  paper! 
This  which  you  use  is  black  and  rough  with 

smears 
Of  sweat  and  grime  and  fraud  and  blood  and 

tears. 

Crossed  with  the  story  of  men's  sins  and  fears, 
Of  battle  and  of  famine  all  these  years, 
When  all  God's  children  had  forgot  their 

birth, 

And  drudged  and  fought  and  died  like 
beasts  of  earth. 

"Give  me  white  paper!" 
One  storm-trained    seaman  listened  to  the 

word ; 
What  no  man  saw  he  saw;  he  heard  what  nc 

man  heard. 

In  answer  he  compelled  the  sea 
To  eager  man  to  tell 
The  secret  she  had  kept  so  well! 
Left  blood  and  guilt  and  tyranny  behind,  — 
Sailing  still  West  the  hidden  shore  to  find; 
For  all  mankind  that  unstained  scroll  un 
furled, 

Where  God  might  write  anew  the  s'ory  of 
the  World. 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


COLUMBUS  AND  THE  MAYFLOWER 

O  i  iTTi.E  fleet !  that  on  thy  quest  divine 
Sailedst  from  Palos  one  bright  autumn  irorn, 
Say,  has  o!d  Ocean's  bosom  ever  borne 
A  freight  of  faith  and  hope  to  match  with  thine  ? 

Say,  too,  has  Heaven's  high  favor  given  again 
Such  consummation  of  desire  as  shone 
About  Columbus  when  he  rested  on 
TLe  new-found  world  and  married  it  to  Spain  ? 

Answer,  —  thou    refuge    of    the    freeman's 

need, — 

Thou  for  whose  destinies  no  kings  looked  out, 
P>>  or  sages  to  resolve  some  mighty  doubt,  — 
Thou  simple  Mayflower  of  the  salt-sea  mead! 

When  thou  wert  wafted  to  that  distant  f]  ore, 
Gay  flowers,  bright  birds,  rich  odors  met  thee 

not, 

S^ern  Nature  hailed  thee  to  a  sterner  lot,  — 
God  gave  free  earth  and  air,  and  gave  r.o 

n.ore. 


THE  LEGEND   OF   WAUKULLA 


Thus  to  men  cast  in  that  heroic  mould  But  He  who  rules  both  calm  and  stormy  days, 

Came     empire     such     as     Spaniard    never  I  Can  guard  that  people's  heart,  that  nation's 


knew, 
Such    empire    as    beseems   the    just    and 

true; 
And    at    the   last,   almost   unsought,   came 

gold. 


health, 
Safe  on  the  perilous  heights  cf  power  and 

wealth, 

As  in  the  straitness  of  the  ancient  ways. 
LORD  HOUG..TON. 


CHAPTER   II 


IN   THE   WAKE   OF   COLUMBUS 


The  news  of  Columbus's  discoveries  soon  spread 
through  western  Europe,  and  in  May,  1497,  John 
Cabot  sailed  from  Bristol,  England,  in  the  Mat 
thew,  and  discovered  what  he  supposed  to  be  the 
Chinese  coast  on  June  £4.  The  thrifty  Henry  VII 
gave  him  the  sum  of  £10  as  a  reward  for  this 
achievement.  Cabot  was  the  first  European  since 
the  vikings  to  set  foot  on  the  North  American 
continent. 


THE   FIRST  VOYAGE   OF  JOHN 
CABOT 

[1497] 

"HE  chases  shadows,"  sneered  the  British 

tars. 
"As   well    fling   nets   to   catch  the   golden 

stars 

As  climb  the  surges  of  earth's  utmost  sea." 
But  for  the  Venice  pilot,  meagre,  wan, 
His  swarthy  sons  beside  him,  life  began 
With  that  slipt  cable,  when  his  dream  rode 

free. 

And  Henry,  on  his  battle-v/rested  throne, 
The  Councils  done,  would  speak  in  musing 

tone 

Of  Cabot,  not  the  cargo  he  might  bring. 
"Man's  heart,  though  morsel  scant  for  hun 
gry  crow, 

Is  greater  than  a  world  can  fill,  and  so 
Fair   fall   the   shadow-seekers!"    quoth    the 
king. 


Colonies  were  planted  by  the  Spaniards  in  Cuha 
and  Hispaniola,  but  the  New  World  continued  to 
be  for  thfem  a  land  of  wonder  and  mystery.  They 
were  quite  ready  to  believe  any  marvel,  —  amoni? 
others,  that  somewhere  to  the  north  lay  an  island 
uamed  Bimini,  on  which  was  a  fountain  whose 


waters  gave  perpetual  youth  to  all  who  bathed 
therein. 

THE  LEGEND   OF   WAUKULLA 

11513] 

THROUGH    darkening    pines    the    cavaliers 

marched  on  their  sunset  way, 
While  crimson  in  the  trade-winds  rolled  far 

Appalachee  Bay, 
Abc"e  the  water-levels  rose  palmetto  crowns 

like  ghosts 
Of  kings  primeval ;  them,  behind,  the  shadowy 

pines  in  hosts. 

"O  cacique,  brave  and  trusty  guide, 
Are  we  not  near  the  spring, 
The  fountain  of  eternal  youth  that  health  to 

age  doth  bring?" 

The  cacique  sighed, 

And  Indian  guide, 

"The  fount  is  fair, 

Waukulla! 

"But  vainly  to  the  blossomed  flower  will  come 

the  autumn  rain, 
And  never  youth's  departed  days  come  back 

to  age  again; 
The  future  in  the  .spirit  lies,  the  earthly  life 

is  brief, 
'T  is  you  that  say  the  fount  hath  life,"  so  said 

the  Indian  chief. 

"Nay,  Indian  king;  nay,  Indian  king, 
Thou  knowest  well  the  spring, 
And  thou  shalt  die  if  thou  dost  fail  our  feet 

to  it  to  bring." 
The  cacique  sighed, 
And  Indian  guide, 
"The  spring  is  bright, 
Waukulla  i" 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Then  said  the  guide,  "O  men  of  Spain,  a 

wondrous  fountain  flows 
From  deep  abodes  of  gods  below,  and  health 

on  men  bestows. 
Blue  are  its  deeps  and  green  its  walls,  and 

from  its  waters  gleam 
The  water-stars,  and  from  it  runs  the  pure 

Waukulla's  stream. 
But  men  of  Spain,  but  men  of  Spain, 
'T  is  you  who  say  that  spring 
Eternal  youth  and  happiness  to  men  again 

will  bring." 
The  cacique  sighed, 
And  Indian  guide, 
"The  fount  is  clear, 
Waukulla!" 

March  on,  the  land  enchanted  is ;  march  on, 

ye  men  of  Spain; 
Who  would  not  taste  the  bliss  of  youth  and 

all  its  hopes  again. 
Enchanted  is  the  land;  behold!  enchanted 

is  the  air; 
The  very  heaven  is  domed  with  gold ;  there 's 

beauty  everywhere ! " 
So  said  De  Leon.    "Cavaliers, 
We're  marching  to  the  spring, 
The  fountain  of  eternal  youth  that  health  to 

age  will  bring!" 

The  cacique  sighed, 

And  Indian  guide, 

"The  fount  is  pure, 

Waukulla!" 

Beneath  the  pines,  beneath  the  yews,  the 

deep  magnolia  shades, 
The  clear  Waukulla  swift  pursues  its  way 

through  floral  glades; 
Beneath  the  pines,  beneath  the  yews,  beneath 

night's  falling  shade, 
Beneath  the  low  and  dusky  moon  still  marched 

the  cavalcade. 

"The  river  widens,"  said  the  men; 
"Are  we  not  near  the  spring, 
The  fountain  of  eternal  youth  that  health 

to  age  doth  bring  ? " 
The  cacique  sighed, 
And  Indian  guide, 
"The  spring  is  near, 
Waukulla! 

c  The  fount  is  fair  and  bright  and  clear,  and 

pure  its  waters  run; 
Waukulla,  lovely  in  the  moon  and  beauteous 

in  the  sun. 


But  vainly  to  the  blossomed  flower  will  come 

the  autumn  rain, 
And  never  youth's  departed  days  come  back 

to  man  again. 

O  men  of  Spain!    O  men  of  Spain! 
'T  is  you  that  say  the  spring 
Eternal   youth   and   happiness   to   withered 

years  will  bring!" 
The  cacique  sighed, 
And  Indian  guide, 
"The  fount  is  deep, 
Waukulla!" 

The   river  to  a  grotto  led,  as  to  a  god's 

abode; 
There  lay  the  fountain  bright  with  stars; 

stars  in  its  waters  flowed; 
The  mighty  live-oaks  round  it  rose,  in  ancient 

mosses  clad; 

De  Leon's  heart  beat  high  for  joy;  the  cava 
liers  were  glad, 

"O  men  of  Spain!    O  men  of  Spain! 
This  surely  is  the  spring, 
The  fountain  fair  that  health  and  joy  to  faces 

old  doth  bring!" 
The  cacique  sighed, 
And  Indian  guide, 
"The  spring  is  old, 
Waukulla!" 

"Avalla,  O  my  trusty  friend  that  we  this  day 

should  see! 
Strip  off  thy  doublet  and  descend  the  glowing 

fount  with  me ! " 
"The  saints!  I  will,"  Avalla  said.   "Already 

young  I  feel, 
And  younger  than  my  sons  shall  I  return  to 

old  Castile." 

Then  plunged  De  Leon  in  the  spring 
And  then  Avalla  old, 
Then  slowly  rose  each  wrinkled  face  above 

the  waters  cold. 

The  cacique  sighed, 

And  Indian  guide, 

"The  fount  is  fa"se, 

Waukulla!" 

O  vainly  to  the  blossomed  flower  will  come 

the  autumn  rain, 
And  never  youth's  departed  days  come  back 

to  man  again; 
The  crowns  Castilian  could  not  bring  the 

withered  stalk  a  leaf, 
But  came  a  sabre  flash  that  morn,  and  fell 

the  Indian  chief. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF    YOUTH 


21 


Another  sabre  flash,  and  then 
The  guide  beside  him  lay, 
And  red   the   clear   Waukulla   ran   toward 

Appalachee  Bay. 
Then  from  the  dead 
The  Spaniards  fled, 
And  cursed  the  spring, 
Waukulla. 

"Like  comrades  life  was  left  behind,  the 

years  shall  o'er  me  roll, 
For  all  the  hopes  that  man  can  find  lies  hidden 

in  the  soul. 
Ye  white  sails  lift,  and  drift  again  across  the 

southern  main; 

There  wait  for  me,  there  wait  us  all,  the  hol 
low  tombs  of  Spain!" 
Beneath  the  liquid  stars  the  sails 
Arose  and  went  their  way, 
And    bore   the   gray-haired    cavaliers    from 

Appalachee  Bay. 
The  young  chief  slept, 
The  maiden  wept, 
Beside  the  bright 
Waukulla. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


In  1512  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon  received  a  grant 
to  discover  and  settle  this  fabulous  island.  He 
sailed  from  Porto  Rico  in  search  of  it  in  March, 
1513,  and  found  an  island  but  no  fountain.  Push 
ing  on,  he  discovered  the  mainland  March  27, 
and,  on  April  2,  landed  and  took  possession  of  the 
country  for  the  King  of  Spain,  calling  it  Florida. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   YOUTH 

A  DREAM  OF  PONCE  DE  LEON 
[1513] 


A  STORY  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 

A  voyager,  withered  and  old, 
Who  came  to  the  sunny  Antilles, 

In  quest  of  a  country  of  gold. 
He  was  wafted  past  islands  of  spices, 

As  bright  as  the  Emerald  seas, 
Where  all  the  forests  seem  singing, 

So  thick  were  the  birds  on  the  trees; 
The  sea  was  as  clear  as  the  azure, 

And  so  deep  and  so  pure  was  the  sky 
That  the  jasper-walled  city  seemed  shining 

Just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  eye. 


By  day  his  light  canvas  he  shifted, 

And  rounded  strange  harbors  and  bars; 
By  night,  on  the  full  tides  he  drifted, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  lamps  of  the  stars. 
Near  the  glimmering  gates  of  the  sunset, 

In  the  twilight  empurpled  and  dim, 
The  sailors  uplifted  their  voices, 

And  sang  to  the  Virgin  a  hymn. 
"Thank  the  Lord !"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

At  the  close  of  the  rounded  refrain  ; 
"Thank  the  Lord,  the  Almighty,  who  blesses 

The  ocean-swept  banner  of  Spain! 
The  shadowy  world  is  behind  us, 

The  shining  Cepango,  before; 
Each  morning  the  sun  rises  brighter 

On  ocean,  and  island,  and  shore. 
And  still  shall  our  spirits  grow  lighter, 

As  prospects  more  glowing  enfold; 
Then  on,  merry  men!  to  Cepango, 

To  the  west,  and  the  regions  of  gold!" 


There  came  to  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

Some  Indian  sages,  who  told 
Of  a  region  so  bright  that  the  waters 

Were  sprinkled  with  islands  of  gold. 
And  they  added:  "The  leafy  Bimini, 

A  fair  land  of  grottos  and  bowers, 
Is  there;  and  a  wonderful  fountain 

Upsprings  from  its  gardens  of  flowers. 
That  fountain  gives  life  to  the  dying, 

And  youth  to  the  aged  restores; 
They  flourish  in  beauty  eternal, 

Who  set  but  their  foot  on  its  shores!" 
Then  answered  De  Leon,  the  sailor: 

"I  am  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and  old; 
I  would  rather  discover  that  fountain 

Than  a  country  of  diamonds  and  gold." 


Away  sailed  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

Away  with  a  wonderful  glee, 
Till  the  birds  were  more  rare  in  the  azure, 

The  dolphins  more  rare  in  the  sea. 
Away  from  the  shady  Bahamas, 

Over  waters  no  sailor  had  seen, 
Till  a^ain  on  his  wondering  vision, 

Rose  clustering  islands  of  green. 
Still  onward  he  sped  till  the  breezes 

Were  laden  with  odors,  and  lo! 
A  country  embedded  with  flowers, 

A  country  with  rivers  aglow! 
More  bright  than  the  sunny  Antilles,  - 

More  fair  than  the  shady  Azores. 


22 


"Thank  the  Lord !"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor 
As  feasted  his  eye  on  the  shores, 

"We  have  come  to  a  region,  rny  brothers, 
More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 

And  here  is  the  life-giving  fountain,  — 
The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 


Then  landed  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

Unfurled  his  old  banner,  and  sung; 
But  he  felt  very  wrinkled  and  withered, 

All  around  was  so  fresh  and  so  young. 
The  palms,  ever-verdant,  were  blooming, 

Their  blossoms  e'en  margined  the  seas; 
O'er  the  streams  of  the  forests  bright  flowers 

Hung  deep  from  the  branches  of  trees. 
"Praise  the  Lord!"  sung  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

His  heart  was  with  rapture  aflame; 
And  he  said:  "Be  the  name  of  this  region 

By  Florida  given  to  fame. 
'T  is  a  fair,  a  delectable  country. 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
I  soon  shall  partake  of  the  fountain,  — 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth!" 


But  wandered  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

In  search  of  that  fountain  in  vain; 
No  waters  were  there  to  restore  him 

To  freshness  and  beauty  again. 
And  his  anchor  he  lifted,  and  murmured, 

As  the  tears  gathered  fast  in  his  eye, 
"I  must  leave  this  fair  land  of  the  flowers, 

Go  back  o'er  the  ocean,  and  die." 
Then  back  by  the  dreary  Tortugas, 

And  back  by  the  shady  Azores, 
He  was  borne  on  the  storm-smitten  waters 

To  the  calm  of  his  own  native  shores. 
And  that  he  grew  older  and  older, 

His  footsteps  enfeebled  gave  proof, 
Still   he   thirsted   in    dreams   for   the   foun 
tain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


One  day  the  old  sailor  lay  dying 

On  the  shores  of  a  tropical  isle, 
And    his    heart    was    enkindled    with   rap 
ture, 

And  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile. 
He  thought  of  the  sunny  Antilles, 

He  thought  of  the  shady  Azores, 
He  thought  of  the  dreamy  Bahamas, 

He  thought  of  fair  Florida's  shores. 


And,  when  in  his  mind  he  passed  over 

His  wonderful  travels  of  old, 
He  thought  of  the  heavenly  country, 

Of  the  city  of  jasper  and  gold. 
"Thank  the  Lord!"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

"Thank  the  Lord  for  the  light  of  the  truth, 
I  now  am  approaching  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 

vn 

The  cabin  was  silent:  at  twilight 

They  heard  the  birds  singing  a  psalm, 
And  the  wind  of  the  ocean  low  sighing 

Through  groves  of  the  orange  and  palm. 
The  sailor  still  lay  on  his  pallet, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  vines  of  the  roof; 
His  soul  had  gone  forth  to  discover 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 

HEZEKIAII  BUTTERWOKTII. 


In  March,  1521,  De  Leon  led  a  larpe  party  to 
Florida  and  attempted  to  plant  a  colony  there, 
but  they  were  driven  away  by  the  Indians.  De 
Leon  himself  was  wounded  in  the  thigh  by  an 
arrow.  The  wound  was  unskillfully  treated,  and 
the  old  adventurer  died  of  it  in  Cuba  shortly 
afterwards. 

PONCE   DE   LEON 

[1521] 

You  that  crossed  the  ocean  old, 
Not  from  greed  of  Inca's  gold, 
But  to  search  by  vale  and  rrount, 
Wood  and  rock,  the  wizard  fount 
Where  Time's  harm  is  well  undone,  — 
Here's  to  Ponce  de  Leon, 
And  your  liegemen  every  one! 
Surely,  still  beneath  the  sun, 
In  sorre  region  further  west, 
You  live  on  and  have  your  rest. 
While  the  world  goes  spinning  round, 
And  the  sky  hears  the  resound 
Of  a  thousand  shrill  new  farr.es, 
Which  your  jovial  silence  sharres ! 
Strength  and  joy  your  days  endow, 
Youth's  eyes  glow  beneath  your  brow; 
Wars  and  vigils  are  forgot, 
And  the  Scytherran  threats  you  not. 
Tell  us,  of  your  knightly  grace, 
Tell  us,  left  you  not  some  trace 
Leading  to  that  wellspring  true 
Where  old  souls  their  age  renew  ? 

EDITH  M.  TKOMAS. 


BALBOA 


The  Spaniards,  meanwhile,  had  pushed  on 
across  the  Caribbean  Sea  and  founded  Darien, 
whither,  in  1510,  came  one  Vasco  Nunez  Balboa. 
He  made  numerous  explorations,  and,  learning 
from  the  Indians  that  there  was  a  great  sea  to  tne 
south,  determined  to  search  for  it.  He  started 
from  Darien  September  1,  1513,  and  on  the  25th 
reached  the  top  of  a  mountain  from  which  ne  first 
saw  the  Pacific.  He  gained  the  shore  fo^r  days 
later,  and,  wading  into  the  water,  took  possession 
of  it  for  the  King  of  Spain. 


BALBOA 

[September  25,  1513] 

WITH  restless  step  of  discontent, 
Day  after  day  he  fretting  went 
Along  the  old  accustomed  ways 
That  led  to  easeful  length  of  days. 

But  far  beyond  the  fragrant  shade 
Of  orange  grove?  his  glances  strayed 
To  where  the  white  horizon  line 
Caught  from  the  sea  its  silvery  shine. 

He  knew  the  taste  of  that  salt  spray, 
he  knew  the  wind  that  blew  that  way; 
Ah,  once  again  to  mount  and  ride 
Upon  that  pulsing  ocean  tide,  — 

To  find  new  lands  of  virgin  gold. 
To  wrest  them  from  the  savage  hold, 
To  conquer  with  the  sword  and  brain 
Fresh  fields  and  fair  for  royal  Spain! 

This  was  the  dream  of  wild  desire 
That  set  his  gallant  heart  on  fire. 
And  stirred  with  feverish  discontent 
That  soul  for  nobler  issues  meant. 

Sometimes  his  children's  laughter  brought 
A  thrill  that  checked  his  restless  thought; 
Sometimes  a  voice  more  tender  yet 
Would  soothe  the  fever  and  the  fret. 

Thus  day  by  day,  until  one  day 
Came  news  that  in  the  harbor  lay 
A  ship  bound  outward  to  explore 
The  treasures  of  that  western  shore, 

Which  bold  adventurers  as  yet 
Had  failed  to  conquer  or  forget: 
"Yet  where  they  failed,  and  failing  died, 
My  will  shall  conquer!"  Balboa  cried. 


But  when  on  Darien's  shore  he  stept. 
And  fast  and  far  his  vision  swept, 
He  saw  before  him,  white  and  stili, 
The  Andes  mocking  at  his  will. 

Then  like  a  flint  he  set  his  face; 
Let  others  falter  from  their  place, 
His  hand  and  foot,  his  sturdy  soul 
Should  seek  and  gain  that  distant  goal ! 

With  speech  like  this  he  fired  the  land, 
And  gathered  to  his  bold  command 
A  troop  of  twenty  score  or  more, 
To  follow  where  he  led  before. 

They  followed  him  day  after  day 
O'er  burning  lands  where  ambushed  lay 
The  waiting  savage  in  his  lair, 
And  fever  poisoned  all  the  air. 

But  like  a  sweeping  wind  of  flame 
A  conqueror  through  all  he  came; 
The  savage  fell  beneath  his  hand, 
Or  led  him  on  to  seek  the  land 

That  richer  yet  for  golden  gain 
Stretched  out  beyond  the  mountain  chain. 
Steep  after  steep  of  rough  ascent 
They  followed,  followed,  worn  and  spent, 

Until  at  length  they  came  to  where 
The  last  peak  lifted  near  and  fair; 
Then  Balboa  turned  and  waved  aside 
His  panting  troops.    "Rest  here,"  he  cried, 

"And  wait  for  me."    And  with  a  tread 
Of  trembling  haste,  he  quickly  sped 
Along  the  trackless  height,  alone 
To  seek,  to  reach,  his  mountain  throne. 

Step  after  step  he  mounted  swift; 

The  wind  blew  down  a  cloudy  drift; 

From   .come   strange   source    he   seemed   to 

hear 
The  music  of  another  sphere. 

Step  af'er  step;  the  cloud-winds  blew 
Their  blindingmists, then  throughand  through 
Sun-cleft,  they  broke,  and  all  alone 
He  stood  upon  his  mountain  throne. 

Pefore  him  spread  r.o  paltry  lands. 
To  wrest  with  spoils  from  savage  hands; 
Put,  fresh  and  fair,  an  unkrown  world 
Of  mighty  sea  and  shore  unfurled 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Its  wondrous  scroll  beneath  the  skies. 
Ah,  what  to  this  the  flimsy  prize 
Of  gold  and  lands  for  which  he  came 
With  hot  ambition's  sordid  aim ! 

Silent  he  stood  with  streaming  eyes 
In  that  first  moment  of  surprise, 
Then  on  the  mountain-top  he  bent, 
This  conqueror  of  a  continent, 

In  wordless  ecstasy  of  prayer,  — 
Forgetting  in  that  moment  there, 
With  Nature's  God  brought  face  to  face, 
All  vainer  dreams  of  pomp  and  place. 

Thus  to  the  world  a  world  was  given. 
Where  lesser  men  had  vainly  striven, 
And  striving  died,  —  this  gallant  soul, 
Divinely  guided,  reached  the  goal. 

NORA  PERRY. 


In  1518  a  great  expedition,  under  Hernando 
Cortez,  sailed  from  Cuba  in  search  of  a  land  of 
marvellous  wealth  which  was  said  to  exist  some 
where  north  of  Darien.  The  result  was  the  dis 
covery  of  Mexico,  which  the  Spaniards  subdued 
with  indescribable  cruelties. 

WITH   CORTEZ  IN   MEXICO 

[1519] 

"MATER  a  Dios,  preserve  us 

And  give  us  the  Mexican  gold, 
Viva  Espana  forever!" 

Light-hearted,  treacherous,  bold, 
With  clashing  of  drums  and  of  cymbals, 

With  clatter  of  hoofs  and  of  arms, 
Into  the  Tezcucan  city, 

Over  the  Tezcucan  farms; 
In  through  the  hordes  of  Aztecs, 

Past  glitter  of  city  and  lake, 
Brave  for  death  or  for  conquest, 

And  the  Mother  of  God's  sweet  sake. 

Perchance  from  distant  Granada, 

Perchance  from  the  Danube's  far  blue, 
He  had  fought  with  Moor  and  Saracen, 

Where  the  death  hail  of  battle-fields  flew. 
Down  through  the  smoke  and  the  battle, 

Trolling  an  old  Moorish  song, 
Chanting  an  Ave  or  Pater, 

To  whiten  the  red  of  his  wrong, 
Dreaming  of  Seville,  Toledo, 

And  dark,  soft  catholic  eyes, 


Light-hearted,  reckless,  and  daring, 
He  rides  under  Mexican  skies. 

Child  of  valor  and  fortune, 

Nurtured  to  ride  and  to  strike, 
Fearless  in  defeat  or  in  conquest, 

Of  man  and  of  devil  alike; 
Out  through  the  clamor  of  battle, 

Up  through  rivers  of  blood, 
"Viva  Espana  forever! 

God  and  the  bold  Brotherhood! 
Strike  for  the  memories  left  us, 

Strike  for  the  lives  that  we  keep, 
Strike  for  the  present  and  future, 

In  the  name  of  our  comrades  who  sleep; 
Strike!  for  Jesus'  sweet  Mother, 

For  the  arms  and  the  vows  that  we  hold; 
Strike  for  fortune  and  lover, 

God,  and  the  Mexican  gold ! " 

At  morning  gay,  careless  in  battle, 

With  love  on  his  lips,  in  his  eyes; 
At  even  stretched  pallid  and  silent, 

Out  under  Mexican  skies. 
And  far  in  some  old  Spanish  city, 

Two  dark  eyes  wait  patient  and  long 
For  a  lover  who  sailed  to  the  westward, 

Trolling  an  old  Moorish  song. 

W.  W.  CAMPBELL. 


Shortly  afterwards,  Pizarro  completed  the 
conquest  of  Peru.  Heavily-laden  treasure-ships 
were  sent  homeward  across  the  Atlantic,  and  at 
last  the  Spanish  lust  of  gold  seemed  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  satisfied. 


THE   LUST   OF   GOLD 

From  "The  West  Indies" 

RAPACIOUS  Spain 

Follow'd  her  hero's  triumphs  o'er  the  main, 
Her  hardy  sons  in  fields  of  battle  tried, 
Where  Moor  and  Christian  desperately  died. 
A  rabid  race,  fanatically  bold, 
And  steel'd  to  cruelty  by  lust  of  gold, 
Traversed   the  waves,   the  unknown   world 

explored, 
The  cross  their  standard,  but  their  faith  the 

sword; 
Their  steps  were  graves ;  o'er  prostrate  realms 

they  trod; 
They  worshipp'd  Mammon  while  they  vow'd 

to  God. 


VERAZZANO 


Let  nobler  bards  in  loftier  numbers  tell 
How  Cortez  conquer'd,  Montezuma  fell; 
How  fierce  Pizarro's  ruffian  arm  o'erthrew 
The  sun's  resplendent  empire  in  Peru ; 
How,  like  a  prophet,  old  Las  Casas  stood, 
And  raised  his  voice  against  a  sea  of  blood, 
Whose  chilling  waves  recoil'd  while  he  fore 
told 

His  country's  ruin  by  avenging  gold. 
—  That  gold,  for  which  unpitied  Indians  fell. 
That  gold,  at  once  the  snare  and  scourge  of 

hell, 
Thenceforth  by  righteous  Heaven  was  doom'd 

to  shed 

Unmingled  curses  on  the  spoiler's  head; 
For  gold  the  Spaniard  cast  his  soul  away,  — 
His  gold  and  he  were  every  nation's  prey. 

But  themes  like  these  would  ask  an  angel- 
lyre, 

Language  of  light  and  sentiment  of  fire; 
Give  me  to  sing,  in  melancholy  strains, 
Of  Charib  martyrdoms  and  Negro  chains; 
One  race  by  tyrants  rooted  from  the  earth, 
One  doom'd  to  slavery  by  the  taint  of  birth ! 

Dreadful  as  hurricanes,  athwart  the  main 
Rush'd  the  fell  legions  of  invading  Spain; 
With  fraud  and  force,  with  false  and  fatal 

breath 

(Submission  bondage,  and  resistance  death), 
They  swept  the  isles.  In  vain  the  simple  race 
Kneel'd  to  the  iron  sceptre  of  their  grace, 
Or   with   weak  arms  their   fiery   vengeance 

braved ; 
They  came,  they  saw,  they  conquer'd,  they 

enslaved, 
And   they   destroy'd ;  —  the   generous   heart 

they  broke, 
They  crush'd  the  timid  neck   beneath   the 

yoke; 

Where'er  to  battle  march'd  their  fell  array, 
The  sword  of  conquest   plough'd  resistless 

way; 

Where'er  from  cruel  toil  they  sought  repose, 
Around  the  fires  of  devastation  rose. 
The  Indian,  as  he  turn'd  his  head  in  flight, 
Beheld  his  cottage  flaming  through  the  night. 
And,  midst  the  shrieks  of  murder  on  the  wind, 
Heard   the   mute    bloodhound's    death-step 

close  behind. 

The  conflict  o'er,  the  valiant  in  their  graves, 
The  wretched  remnant  dwindled  into  slaves; 
Condemn'd  in  pestilential  cells  to  pine, 


Delving  for  gold  amidst  the  gloomy  mine. 
The  sufferer,  sick  of  life-protracting  breath, 
Inhaled  with  joy  the  fire-damp  blast  of  death: 

—  Condemn'd  to  fell  the  mountain  palm  on 

high, 

That  cast  its  shadow  from  the  evening  sky, 
Ere  the  tree  trembled  to  his  feeble  stroke, 
The  woodman   languish'd,   and   his   heart 
strings  broke; 

—  Condemn'd  in  torrid  noon,  with  palsied 

hand, 
To  urge  the  slow  plough  o'er  the  obdurate 

land, 

The  laborer,  smitten  by  the  sun's  quick  ray, 
A  corpse  along  the  unfinish'd  furrow  lay. 
O'erwhelm'd  at  length  with  ignominious  toil, 
Mingling  their  barren  ashes  with  the  soil, 
Down  to  the  dust  the  Charib  people  pass'd, 
Like  autumn  foliage  withering  in  the  blast: 
The  whole  race  sunk  beneath  the  oppressor's 

rod, 

And  left  a  blank  among  the  works  of  God. 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


Although  Pope  Alexander  VI  had,  in  1493, 
issued  a  bull  dividing  the  New  World  between 
Spain  and  Portugal,  neither  France  nor  England 
paid  any  heed  to  it.  One  of  France's  most  active 
corsairs  was  Giovanni  da  Verazzano.  In  1524 
he  crossed  the  Atlantic,  and,  sighting  the  coast  at 
Cape  Fear,  turned  northward,  discovered  the 
Hudson,  landed  at  Rhode  Island,  and  kept  on, 
perhaps,  as  far  as  Newfoundland. 

VERAZZANO 

AT  RHODES   AND   RHODE   ISLAND 
[1524] 

IN  the  tides  of  the  warm  south  wind  it  lay, 
And  its  grapes  turned  wine  in  the  fires   of 

noon, 

And  its  roses  blossomed  from  May  to  May, 
And  their  fragrance  lingered  from  June  to 
June. 

There  dwelt  old  heroes  at  Ilium  famed. 
There,  bards  reclusive,  of  olden  odes; 

And  so  fair  were  the  fields  of  roses,  they  named 
The  bright  sea-garden  the  Isle  of  Rhodes. 

Fair  temples  graced  each  blossoming  field, 
And  columned  halls  in  gems  arrayed; 

Night  shaded  the  sea  with  her  jewelled  shield. 
And  sweet  the  lyres  of  Orpheus  played. 


26 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  Helios  spanned  the  sea:  its  flame 
Drew  hither  the  ships  of  1'elion's  pines, 

And  twice  a  thousand  statues  of  fame 
Stood  mute  in  twice  a  thousand  shrines. 

And  her  mariners  went,  and  her  mariners 

came, 

And  sang  on  the  seas  the  olden  odes, 
And  at  night  they  remembered  the  Helios' 

flame, 

And  at  morn  the  sweet  fields  of  the  roses 
of  Rhodes. 

From  the  palm  land's  shade  to  the  land  of 

pines, 

A  Florentine  crossed  the  Western  Sea; 
He  sought  new  lands  and  golden  mines, 
And  he  sailed  'neath  the  flag  of  the  Fleur- 
de-lis. 

He  saw  at  last  in  the  sunset's  gold, 
A  wonderful  island  so  fair  to  view 

That  it  seemed  like  the  Island  of  Roses  old 
That  his  eyes  in  his  wondering  boyhood 
knew. 

'T  was  summer  time,  and  the  glad  birds  sung 
In  the  hush  of  noon  in  the  solitudes-, 

From  the  oak's  broad  arms  the  green  vines 

hung; 
Sweet  odors  blew  from  the  resinous  woods. 

He  rounded  the  shores  of  the  summer  sea, 
And  he  said  as  his  feet  the  white  sands 

pressed, 

And  he  planted  the  flag  of  the  Flenr-de-lis: 
"I  have  come  to  the  Island  of  Rhodes  in 
the  West. 

"While  the  mariners  go,  and  the  mariners 
come, 

And  sing  on  lone  waters  the  olden  odes 
Of  the  Grecian  seas  and  the  ports  of  Rome, 

They  will  ever  think  of  the  roses  of  Rhodes." 

To  the  isle  of  the  West  he  gave  the  name 
Of  the  isle  he  had  loved  in  the  Grecian  sea ; 

And  the  Florentine  went  away  as  he  came, 
'Neath  the  silver  flag  of  the  Fleur-de-lis. 

O  fair  Rhode  Island,  thy  guest  was  true, 
He  felt  the  spirit  of  beauteous  things; 

The  sea-wet  roses  were  faint  and  few, 
But  memory  made  them  the  gardens  of 
kings. 


The  Florentine  corsair  sailed  once  more, 
Out  into  the  West  o'er  a  rainy  sea, 

In  search  of  another  wonderful  shore 

For  the  crown  of  France  and  the  t  leur-de-lis. 

But  returned  no  more  the  Florentine  brave 
To  the  courtly  knights  of  fair  Roclielle; 

'Neath  the  lilies  of  France  he  found  a  grave, 
And  not  'neath  the  roses  he  loved  so  well. 

But  the  lessons  of  beauty  his  fond  heart  bore 
From  the  gardens  of  God  were  never  lost ; 

And  the  fairest  name  of  the  Eastern  shore 
Bears  the  fairest  isle  of  the  Western  coast. 
HEZEKIAH  BUTTER  WORTH. 


The  Spaniards  still  dreamed  of  a  great  empire 
somewhere  in  Florida,  and  in  1528  Par.filo  de 
Narvaez  set  out  with  an  expedition  in  search  of 
it.  Only  four  members  of  the  party  got  back  to 
Cuba  alive,  the  others  having  been  killed  or  cap 
tured  by  the  Indians.  Among  those  captured  and 
enslaved  was  Juan  Ortiz.  He  was  rescued  by  De 
Soto  nearly  ten  years  later. 

ORTIZ 

[1528] 

"Go  bring  the  captive,  he  shall  die," 

He  said,  with  faltering  breath; 
"Him  stretch  upon  a  scaffold  high, 

And  light  the  fire  of  death!" 
The  young  Creeks  danced  the  captive  round, 

And  sang  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 

They  brought  the  fagots  for  the  flame, 

The  braves  and  maids  together, 
Wrhen  came  the  princess  —  sweet  her  name: 

The  Red  Flamingo  Feather. 
Then  danced  the  Creeks  the  scaffold  round, 

And  sang  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 

In  shaded  plumes  of  silver  gray, 

The  young  Creeks  danced  together, 
But  she  danced  not  with  them  that  day, 

The  Red  Flamingo  Feather. 
WTild  sped  the  feet  the  scaffold  round, 

WTild  rose  the  ?ong  of  Doorr,  — 
"Flv,  fly.  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky. 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 


THE   FALL   OF   MAUBILA 


27 


They  stretched  the  stranger  from  the  sea, 

Above  the  fagots  lighted,  — 
Ortiz,  —  a  courtly  man  was  he, 

With  deeds  heroic  knighted. 
And  sped  the  feet  the  scaffold  round, 

And  rose  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 

The  white  smoke   rose,  the   braves  were 

gay, 

The  war  drums  beat  together. 
But  sad  in  heart  and  face  that  day 

Was  Red  Flamingo  Feather. 
They  streaked  with  flames  the  dusky  air, 

They  shrieked  t'.ie  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 

"Dance,  dance,  my  girl,  the  torches  gleam, 

Dance,  dance,  the  gray  plumes  gather, 
Dance,    dance,   my  girl,   the  war-hawks 
scream, 

Dance,  Red  Flamingo  Feather!" 
More  swiftly  now  the  torches  sped, 

Amid  the  Dance  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky. 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume!" 

She  knelt  upon  the  green  moss  there, 

And  clasped  her  father's  knees: 
"My  heart  is  weak,  O  father,  spare 

The  wanderer  from  the  seas!" 
Like  madness  now  swept  on  the  dance, 

And  rose  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Ye  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume  !  * 

"Grand  were  the  men  who  sailed  away, 

And  he  is  young  and  brave  ; 
T  is  small  in  heart  the  weak  to  slay, 

'T  is  great  in  heart  to  save." 
He  saw  the  torches  sweep  the  air. 

He  heard  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"  Flv,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky. 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume  ! " 

"My  girl,  I  know  thy  heart  would  spare 

The  wanderer  from  the  sea." 
"The  man  is  fair,  and  I  am  fair, 

And  thou  art  great."  said  she. 
The  dance  of  fire  went  on  and  on, 

And  on  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"  F'v,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  skv. 

Fly,  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume  !" 


The  dark  chief  felt  his  pride  abate: 

"I  will  the  wanderer  spare, 
My  Bird  of  Peace,  since  I  am  great, 

And  he,  like  thee,  is  fair  !" 
They  dropped  the  torches,  stopped  the  dance, 

And  died  the  Song  of  Doom,  — 
"Fly,  fly,  ye  hawks,  in  the  open  sky, 

Away  with  the  warrior's  plume  !" 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

In  1538  Hernando  de  Soto  was  appointed  gov 
ernor  of  Cuba  and  Florida,  with  orders  to  explore 
and  settle  the  latter  country.  He  landed  at  Tampa 
Bay  with  nearly  a  thousand  men  arid  started  into 
the  interior.  He  was  forced  to  fight  his  way  across 
the  country  against  the  tribes  of  the  Creek  confed 
eracy,  and  in  October,  1540,  had  a  desperate  bat 
tle  with  them  at  a  palisaded  village  called  Maubila, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Alabama  River. 

THE  FALL  OF  MAUBILA 

[October  18,  1540] 

HEARKEN  the  stirring  story 

The  soldier  has  to  tell, 
Of  fierce  and  bloody  battle, 

Contested  long  and  well. 
Ere  walled  Maubila,  stoutly  held, 

Before  our  forces  fell. 

Now  many  years  have  circled 

Since  that  October  day, 
When  proudly  to  Maubila 

De  Soto  took  his  way, 
With  men-at-arms  and  cavaliers 

In  terrible  array. 

Oh,  never  sight  more  goodly 

In  any  land  was  seen; 
And  never  better  soldiers 

Than  those  he  led  have  been, 
More  prompt  to  handle  arquebus, 

Or  wield  their  sabres  keen. 

The  sun  was  at  meridian, 

His  hottest  rays  fell  down 
Alike  on  soldier's  corselet 

And  on  the  friar's  gown; 
The  breeze  was  hushed  as  on  we  rode 

Right  proudly  to  the  town. 

First  came  the  bold  De  Soto, 

In  all  his  manly  pride, 
The  gallant  Don  Diego, 

His  nephew,  by  his  side; 


28 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  yard  behind  Juan  Ortiz  rode, 
Interpreter  and  guide. 

Baltasar  de  Gallegos, 

Impetuous,  fierce  and  hot; 
Francisco  de  Figarro, 

Since  by  an  arrow  shot; 
And  slender  Juan  de  Guzman,  who 

In  battle  faltered  not. 

Luis  Bravo  de  Xeres, 

That  gallant  cavalier; 
Alonzo  de  Carmono, 

Whose  spirit  knew  no  fear; 
The  marquis  of  Astorga,  and 

Vasquez,  the  cannoneer. 

Andres  de  Vasconcellos, 
Juan  Gales,  young  and  fair, 

Roma  de  Cardenoso, 

Him  of  the  yellow  hair  — 

Rode  gallant  in  their  bravery, 
Straight  to  the  public  square. 

And  there,  in  sombre  garments, 

Were  monks  of  Cuba  four, 
Fray  Juan  de  Gallegos, 

And  other  priests  a  score, 
Who  sacramental  bread  and  wine 

And  holy  relics  bore. 

And  next  eight  hundred  soldiers 

In  closest  order  come, 
Some  with  Biscayan  lances, 

With  arquebuses  some, 
Timing  their  tread  to  martial  notes 

Of  trump  and  fife  and  drum. 

Loud  sang;  the  gay  Mobilians, 

Light  danced  their  daughters  brown ; 

Sweet  sounded  pleasant  music 
Through  all  the  swarming  town; 

But  'mid  the  joy  one  sullen  brow 
Was  lowering  with  a  frown. 

The  haughty  Tuscaloosa, 

The  sovereign  of  the  land, 
With  moody  face,  and  thoughtful, 

Rode  at  our  chief's  right  hand, 
And  cast  from  time  to  time  a  glance 

Of  hatred  at  the  band. 

And  when  that  gay  procession 
Made  halt  to  take  a  rest, 


And  eagerly  the  people 
To  see  the  strangers  prest, 

The  frowning  King,  in  wrathful  tones, 
De  Soto  thus  addressed: 

'To  bonds  and  to  dishonor 

By  faithless  friends  trepanned, 

For  days  beside  you,  Spaniard, 
The  ruler  of  the  land 

Has  ridden  as  a  prisoner, 
Subject  to  your  command. 

'  He  was  not  born  the  fetters 

Of  baser  men  to  wear, 
And  tells  you  this,  De  Soto, 

Hard  though  it  be  to  bear  — 
Let  those  beware  the  panther's  rage 

WTho  follow  to  his  lair. 

'Back  to  your  isle  of  Cuba! 

Slink  to  your  den  again, 
And  tell  your  robber  sovereign, 

The  mighty  lord  of  Spain, 
Whoso  would  strive  this  land  to  win 

Shall  find  his  efforts  vain. 

'And,  save  it  be  your  purpose 

Within  my  realm  to  die, 
Let  not  your  forces  linger 
Our  deadly  anger  nigh, 
Lest  food  for  vultures  and  for  wolves 
Your  mangled  forms  should  lie." 

Then,  spurning  courtly  offers 
He  left  our  chieftain's  side, 

And  crossing  the  enclosure 

With  quick  and  lengthened  stride, 

He  passed  within  his  palace  gates, 
And  there  our  wrath  defied. 

Now  came  up  Charamilla, 
Who  led  our  troop  of  spies, 

And  said  unto  our  captain, 

With  tones  that  showed  surprise, 
'A  mighty  force  within  the  town, 
In  wait  to  crush  us,  lies. 

'The  babes  and  elder  women 
Were  sent  at  break  of  day 

Into  the  forest  yonder, 

Five  leagues  or  more  away: 

Within  yon  huts  ten  thousand  men 
Wait  eager  for  the  fray." 


THE   FALL   OF    MAUBILA 


"  What  say  ye  now,  my  comrades  ? " 

De  Soto  asked  his  men; 
"  Shall  we,  before  these  traitors, 

Go  backward,  baffled,  then; 
Or,  sword  in  hand,  attack  the  foe 

Who  crouches  in  his  den?" 

Before  their  loud  responses 

Had  died  upon  the  ear, 
A  savage  stood  before  them, 

Who  said,  in  accents  clear, 
"Ho!  robbers  base  and  coward  thieves! 

Assassin  Spaniards,  hear! 

"No  longer  shall  our  sovereign, 
Born  noble,  great,  and  free, 

Be  led  besidt  your  master, 
A  shameful  sight  to  see, 

While  weapons  here  to  strike  you  down 
Or  hands  to  grasp  them  be." 

As  spoke  the  brawny  savage, 

Full  wroth  our  comrades  grew  — 

Baltasar  de  Gallegos 
His  heavy  weapon  drew, 

And  dealt  the  boaster  such  a  stroke 
As  clove  his  body  through. 

Then  rushed  the  swart  Mobilians 
Like  hornets  from  their  nest; 

Against  our  bristling  lances 
Was  bared  each  savage  breast; 

WTith  arrow-head  and  club  and  stone, 
Upon  our  band  they  prest. 

"Retreat  in  steady  order! 

But  slay  them  as  ye  go!" 
Exclaimed  the  brave  De  Soto, 

And  with  each  word  a  blow 
That  sent  a  savage  soul  to  doom 

He  dealt  upon  the  foe. 

"Strike  well  who  would  our  honor 

From  spot  or  tarnish  save! 
Strike  down  the  haughty  Pagan, 

The  infidel  and  slave! 
Saint  Mary  Mother  sits  above, 

And  smiles  upon  the  brave. 

'Strike!  all  my  gallant  comrades! 

Strike!  gentlemen  of  Spain! 
Upon  the  traitor  wretches 

Your  deadly  anger  rain, 
Or  never  to  your  native  land 

Return  in  pride  again!" 


Then  hosts  of  angry  foemen 

We  fiercely  held  at  bay, 
Through  living  walls  of  Pagans 

We  cut  our  bloody  way; 
And  though  by  thousands  round  they  swarmed, 

We  kept  our  firm  array. 

At  length  they  feared  to  follow; 

We  stood  upon  the  plain, 
And  dressed  our  shattered  column; 

When,  slacking  bridle  rein, 
De  Soto,  wounded  as  he  was, 

Led  to  the  charge  again. 

For  now  our  gallant  horsemen 

Their  steeds  again  had  found, 
That  had  been  fastly  tethered 

Unto  the  trees  around, 
Though  some  of  these,  by  arrows  slain, 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground. 

And  as  the  riders  mounted, 

The  foe,  in  joyous  tones, 
Gave  vent  to  shouts  of  triumph, 

And  hurled  a  shower  of  stones; 
But  soon  the  shouts  were  changed  to  wails, 

The  cries  of  joy  to  moans. 

Down  on  the  scared  Mobilians 

The  furious  rush  was  led; 
Down  fell  the  howling  victims 

Beneath  the  horses'  tread; 
The  angered  chargers  trod  alike 

On  dying  and  on  dead. 

Back  to  the  wooden  ramparts, 

With  cut  and  thrust  and  blow, 
We  drove  the  panting  savage, 

The  very  walls  below, 
Till  those  above  upon  our  heads 

Huge  rocks  began  to  throw. 

Whenever  we  retreated 

The  swarming  foemen  came  — 
Their  wild  and  matchless  courage 

Put  even  ours  to  shame  — 
Rushing  upon  our  lances'  points, 

And  arquebuses'  Same. 

Three  weary  hours  we  fought  them, 

And  often  each  gave  way; 
Three  weary  hours,  uncertain 

The  fortune  of  the  day; 
And  ever  where  they  fiercest  fought 

De  Soto  led  the  fray. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Baltasar  de  Gallegos 

Right  well  displayed  his  might; 
His  sword  fell  ever  fatal, 

Death  rode  its  flash  of  light; 
And  where  his  horse's  head  was  turned 

The  foe  gave  way  in  fright. 

At  length  before  our  daring 

The  Pagans  had  to  yield. 
And  in  their  stout  enclosure 

They  sought  to  find  a  shield, 
And  left  us,  wearied  with  our  toil, 

The  masters  of  the  field. 

Now  worn  and  spent  and  weary, 
Our  force  was  scattered  round, 

Some  seeking  for  their  comrades, 
Some  seated  on  the  ground, 

When  sudden  fell  upon  our  ears 
A  single  trumpet's  sound. 

*Up!   ready  make  for  storming!" 

That  speaks  Moscoso  near; 
He  comes  with  stainless  sabre, 

He  comes  with  spotless  spear; 
But  stains  of  blood  and  spots  of  gore 

Await  his  weapons  here. 

Soon,  formed  in  four  divisions. 

Around  the  order  goes  — 
'To  front  with  battle-axes! 
No  moment  for  repose. 
At  signal  of  an  arquebus, 

Rain  on  the  gates  your  blows." 

Not  long  that  fearful  crashing, 

The  gates  in  splinters  fall; 
And  some,  though  sorely  wounded, 

Climb  o'er  the  crowded  wall: 
No  rampart's  height  can  keep  them  back, 

No  danger  can  appall. 

Then  redly  rained  the  carnage  — 
None  asked  for  quarter  there; 

Men  fought  with  all  the  fury 
Born  of  a  wild  despair; 

And  shrieks  and  groans  and  yells  of  hate 
Were  mingled  in  the  air. 

Four  times  they  backward  beat  us, 
Four  times  our  force  returned; 

We  quenched  in  bloody  torrents 
The  fire  that  in  us  burned; 

We  slew  who  fought,  and  those  who  knelt 
With  stroke  of  sword  we  spurned. 


And  what  are  these  new  forces, 
With  long,  black,  streaming  hair? 

They  are  the  singing  maidens 
Who  met  us  in  the  square; 

And  now  they  spring  upon  our  ranks 
Like  she-wolves  from  their  lair. 

Their  sex  no  shield  to  save  them, 
Their  youth  no  weapon  stayed; 

De  Soto  with  his  falchion 
A  lane  amid  them  made. 

And  in  the  skulls  of  blooming  girls 
Sank  battle-axe  and  blade. 

Forth  carr.e  a  winged  arrow, 
And  struck  our  leader's  thigh; 

The  man  who  sent  it  shouted, 
And  looked  to  see  him  die; 

The  wound  but  made  the  tide  of  rage 
Run  twice  as  fierce  and  high. 

Then  came  our  stout  camp-master, 
"The  night  is  coming  down; 

Already  twilight  darkness 
Is  casting  shadows  brown; 

We  would  not  lack  for  light  on  strife 
If  once  we  burned  the  town." 

With  that  we  fired  the  houses; 

The  ranks  before  us  broke; 
The  fugitives  we  followed, 

And  dealt  them  many  a  stroke, 
While  round  us  rose  the  crackling  flame. 

And  o'er  us  hung  the  smoke. 

And  what  with  flames  around  them, 
And  what  with  smoke  o'erhead, 

And  what  with  cuts  of  sabre, 
And  what  with  horses'  tread. 

And  what  with  lance  and  arquebus, 
The  town  was  filled  with  dead. 

Six  thousand  of  the  foemen       •• 

Upon  that  day  were  slain, 
Including  those  who  fought  us 

Outside  upon  the  plain  — 
Six  thousand  of  the  foemen  fell, 

And  eighty-two  of  Spain. 

Not  one  of  us  unwounded 

Came  from  the  fearful  fray; 
And  when  the  fight  was  over 

And  scattered  round  we  lay, 
Some  sixteen  hundred  wounds  we  bo.e 

As  tokens  of  the  day. 


QUIVTRA 


And  through  that  weary  darkness, 
And  all  that  dreary  night, 

We  lay  in  bitter  anguish, 

But  never  mourned  our  plight. 

Although  we  watched  with  eagerness 
To  see  the  morning  light. 

And  when  the  early  dawning 
Had  marked  the  sky  with  red, 

We  saw  the  Moloch  incense 
Rise  slowly  overhead 

From  smoking  ruins  and  the  heaps 
Of  charred  and  mangled  dead. 

I  knew  the  slain  were  Pagans, 

While  we  in  Christ  were  free, 
And  yet  it  seemed  that  moment 

A  spirit  said  to  me: 
'Henceforth  be  doomed  while  life  re 
mains 
This  sight  of  fear  to  see." 

And  ever  since  that  dawning 
Which  chased  the  night  away, 

I  wake  to  see  the  corses 
That  thus  before  me  lay: 

And  this  is  why  in  cloister ed  cell 
I  wait  my  latter  day. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Early  in  1540  a  great  expedition  under  Fran 
cisco  de  Coronado  started  northward  from  Mexico 
in  search  of  the  Seven  Cities  of  Cibola,  of  whose 
glories  and  riches  many  stories  had  been  told. 
The  cities  were  really  the  pueblos  of  the  Zufiis, 
and  the  ballad  tells  the  story  of  the  march. 


QUIVIRA 

tl5-.'O-1541] 

FRANCISCO  CORONADO  rode  forth  with  all 
his  train, 

Eight  hundred  savage  bowmen,  three  hun 
dred  spears  of  Spain, 

To  seek  the  rumored  glory  that  pathless 
deserts  hold  — 

The  city  of  Quivira  whose  walls  are  rich 
wfth  gold. 

Oh,  gay  they  rode  with  plume  on  crest  and 

gilded  spur  at  heel, 
With   gonfalon   of   Aragon    and   banner   of 

Castile! 


While  High  Emprise  and  Joyous  Youth,  twin 
marshals  of  the  throng, 

Awoke  Sonera's  mountain  peaks  with  trum 
pet-note  and  song. 

Beside  that  brilliant  army,  beloved  of  serf 
and  lord, 

There  walked  as  brave  a  soldier  as  ever 
smote  with  sword, 

Though  nought  of  knightly  harness  his  rus 
set  gown  revealed  — 

The  cross  he  bore  as  weapon,  the  missal 
was  his  shield. 

But  rugged  oaths  were  changed  to  prayers, 

and  angry  hearts  grew  tame, 
And   fainting  spirits  waxed  in   faith  where 

Fray  Padilla  came; 
And  brawny  spearmen  bowed  their  heads  to 

kiss  the  helpful  hand 
Of  him  who  spake  the  simple  truth  that  brave 

men  understand. 

What  pen  may  paint  their  daring  —  those 

doughty  cavaliers! 
The  cities  of  the  Zuni  were  humbled  by 

their  spears. 
Wild  Arizona's  barrens  grew  pallid  in  the 

glow 
Of  blades  that  won  Granada  and  conquered 

Mexico. 

They  fared  by  lofty  Acoma;  their  rally-call 

was  blown 
Where  Colorado  rushes  down  through  Goa- 

hewn  walls  of  stone; 
Still,  North  and  East,  where  deserts  spread, 

and  treeless  prairies  rolled, 
A  Fairy  City  lured  them  on  with  pinnacles 

of  gold. 

Through  all  their  weary  marches  toward 

that  flitting  goal 
They  turned  to  Fray  Padilla  for  aid  of 

heart  and  soul. 
He  bound  the  wounds  that  lance-thrust 

and  flinty  arrow  made; 
He  cheered  the  sick  and  failing;  above  the 

dead  he  prayed. 

Two  thousand  miles  of  war  and  woe  behind 

their  banners  lay: 
And  sadly  fever,  drought  and  toil  had  lessened 

their  array, 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


When  came  a  message  fraught  with  hope  to 

all  the  steadfast  band: 
"Good  tidings  from  the  northward,  friends! 

Quivira  lies  at  hand!'' 

How  joyously  they  spurred  them!     How 

sadly  drew  the  rein! 
There  shone  no  golden  palace,  there  blazed 

no  jewelled  fane. 
Rude  tents  of  hide  of  bison,  dog-guarded, 

met  their  view  — 
A  squalid  Indian  village;  the  lodges  of  the 

Sioux ! 

Then  Coronado  bowed  his  head.    He  spake 

unto  his  men: 
"Our  quest  is  vain,  true  hearts  01   Spain! 

Now  ride  we  home  again. 
And  would  to  God  that  I  might  give  that 

phantom  city's  pride 
In  ransom  for  the  gallant  souls  that  here  have 

sunk  and  died!" 

Back,  back  to  Compostela  the  wayworn 
handful  bore; 

But  sturdy  Fray  Padilla  took  up  the  quest 
once  more. 

His  soul  still  longed  for  conquest,  though 
not  by  lance  and  sword; 

He  burned  to  show  the  Heathen  the  path 
way  to  the  Lord. 

Again  he  trudged  the  flinty  hills  and  dazzling 

desert  sands, 
And  few  were  they  that  walked  with  him, 

and  weaponless  their  hands  — 
But  and  the  trusty  man-at-arms,  Docampo, 

rode  him  near 
Like  Great  Heart,  guarding  Christian's  way 

through  wastes  of  Doubt  and  Fear. 

Where  still  in  silken  harvests  the  prairie- 
lilies  toss, 

Among  the  dark  Quiviras  Padilla  reared 
his  cross. 

Within  its  sacred  shadow  the  warriors  of 
the  Kaw 

In  wonder  heard  the  Gospel  of  Love  and 
Peace  and  Law. 

They  gloried  in  their  Brown-robed  Priest; 

and  oft  in  twilight's  gold 
The  warriors  grouped,  a  silent  ring,  to  hear 

the  tale  he  told, 


While  round  the  gentle  man-at-arms  their 
lithe-limbed  children  played 

And  shot  their  arrows  at  his  shield  and  rode 
his  guarded  blade. 

When  thrice  the  silver  crescent  had  filled 

its  curving  shell, 
The  Friar  rose  at  dawning  and  spake  his 

flock  farewell: 
" — And  if  your  Brothers  northward  be 

cruel,  as  ye  say, 
My    Master    bids    me    seek    them  —  and 

dare  I  answer  'Nay'?" 

Again  he  strode  the  path  of  thorns;  but  ere 

the  evening  star 
A  savage  cohort  swept  the  plain  in  paint  and 

plumes  of  war. 
Then   Fray   Padilla   spake   to   them   whose 

hearts  were  most  his  own: 
"My  children,  bear  the  tidings  home  —  let 

me  die  here  alone." 

He  knelt  upon  the  prairie,  begirt  by  yelling 

Sioux.  — 
"Forgive  them,  oh,  my  Father!  they  know 

not  what  they  do ! " 
The  twanging  bow-strings  answered. 

Before  his  eyes,  unrolled 
The   City  of  Quivira   whose  streets  are 
paved  with  gold. 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 

The  Spaniards  were  not  the  only  people  who 
searched  in  vain  for  fabulous  cities.  South  of 
Cape  Breton  lay  a  country  which  the  early  French 
explorers  named  Norembega,  and  there  was  sup 
posed  to  exist,  somewhere  within  its  boundaries, 
a  magnificent  city  of  the  same  name.  Roberval 
and  Jacques  Cartier  spent  a  number  of  years 
after  1541  seeking  it,  and  in  1604  Champlain  ex 
plored  the  Penobscot  River,  on  whose  banks  it 
was  supposed  to  be  situated,  but  found  no  trace 
of  it,  nor  any  evidence  of  civilization  except  a 
cross,  very  old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods. 

NOREMBEGA 

[c.  1543] 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 

The  mystic  water  took, 
From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 

The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 
For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 


NOREMBEGA 


33 


While  evermore,  behind,  before, 
Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 

Wan  flowers  without  a  name; 
Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 

League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unweaned, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 
Along  the  clouds  burned  down; 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "the  domes  and  spires 
Of  Norembega  town." 

"Alack!  the  domes,  O  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high ; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 

That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"Oh,  hush  and  hark!  What  sounds  are  these 

But  chants  and  holy  hymns?" 
"Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 

Through  all  their  leafy  limbs." 

"Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

-The  air  with  its  low  tone  ? " 
"Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"The  Christ  be  praised!  —  He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight!" 
"Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright!" 

"Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 

It  mattereth  not,  my  knave; 
Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 

The  cross  is  for  my  grave! 

"My  life  is  sped;  I  shall  not  see 

My  home-set  sails  again; 
The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 

Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 
The  baffling  marvel  calls; 


I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 
On  Norembega's  walls. 

"So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest;  go  thou 
And  look  from  yonder  heights; 

Perchance  the  valley  even  now 
Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still. 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 
Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 

A  flutter  as  of  evil  wings, 
The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

He  turned  him  back;  "O  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"As  God  shall  will!  what  matters  where 

A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 
So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 

In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

"These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall; 

"Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given: 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 

"No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 

My  weary  eyes  shall  see; 
A  city  never  made  with  hands 

Alone  awaiteth  me  — 

" '  Urbs  Syon  mystica ; '  I  see 
Its  mansions  passing  fair, 


34 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'Condita  caelo;'  let  me  be, 
Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there!" 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 
And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 

The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 
Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 

And  Norembega  proved  again 
A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the  spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Until  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Spain 
was  the  only  nation  which  had  succeeded  in  es 
tablishing  colonies  in  the  New  World.  In  1583 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  secured  permission  from 
Queen  Elizabeth  to  set  out  on  a  voyage  of  dis 
covery  and  colonization,  for  the  glory  of  England. 
He  landed  at  St.  John's.  Newfoundland,  August  5, 
and  established  there  the  first  English  colony  in 
North  America.  Then  he  sai'ed  away  to  explore 
further,  and  met  the  fate  described  in  the  poem. 
The  colony  proved  a  failure. 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT 

[1583] 

SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain; 


But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas!  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas!  the  land-wind  failed, 

And  ice-cold  grew  the  night; 
And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 

Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand; 
"Do  not  fear!  Heaven  is  as  near," 

He  said,  "by  water  as  by  land!" 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 

At  midnight  black  and  cold! 
As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main; 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

With  the  destruction  of  the  Armada  in  1588, 
Spain's  sea  power  was  so  shattered  that  the  At 
lantic  ceased  to  be  a  battleground,  English  sailors 
could  come  and  go  with  a  fair  degree  of  safety, 
and  before  long  the  American  coast  was  alive 
with  these  daring  and  adventurous  voyagers. 

THE   FIRST  AMERICAN   SAILORS 

Five  fearless  knights  of  Ihe  first  renown 
In  Elizabeth's  great  array. 


THE   FIRST  AMERICAN   SAILORS 


35 


From  Plymouth  in  De  von  sailed  up  and  down — 
American  sailors  they ; 
Who  went  to  the  West, 
For  they  all  knew  best 
Where  the  silver  was  gray 
As  a  moonlit  night, 
And  the  gold  as  bright 
As  a  midsummer  day  — 

A-sailing  away 
Through  the  salt  sea  spray, 
The  first  American  sailors. 

Sir  HUMPHREY  GILBERT,  he  was  ONE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  the  sea  as  he  loved  the  sun 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb  — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim : 
In  Holland  the  Spanish  hide  he  tanned, 
He  roughed  and  routed  their  braggart  band, 
And  God  was  with  him  on  sea  and  land; 

Newfoundland  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host  — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  near  the  Equator  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Sir  FRANCIS  DRAKE,  and  he  was  TWO 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  in  his  heart  the  waters  blue 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb  — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  I 
At  Cadiz  he  singed  the  King's  black  beard, 
The  Armada  met  him  and  fled  afeard, 
Great  Philip's  golden  fleece  he  sheared; 

Oregon  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host  — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  California  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Sir  WALTER  RALEIGH,  he  was  THREE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
There  was  nothing  he  loved  so  well  as  the  sea — 

He  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb  — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  I 
He  settled  full  many  a  Spanish  score, 
Full  many  's  the  banner  his  bullets  tore 
On  English,  American,  Spanish  shore; 

Guiana  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host  — 


And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  Guiana  northward  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Sir  RICHARD  GRENVILLE,  he  was  FOUR 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  loved  the  waves  and  their  windy  roar 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb  — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  ! 
He  whipped  him  on  land  and  mocked  him  at 

sea, 

He  laughed  to  scorn  his  sovereignty, 
And  with  the  Revenge  beat  his  fifty-three; 

Virginia  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host  — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  the  Old  Dominion  away  to  the  Pole ; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

And  Sir  JOHN  HAWKINS,  he  was  FIVE 

And  Devon  was  heaven  to  him, 
He  worshipped  the  water  while  he  was  alive 

And  hated  the  Don  as  the  Devil's  limb  — 

Hated  him  up  to  the  brim  ! 
He  chased  him  over  the  Spanish  Main, 
He  scoffed  and  defied  the  navies  of  Spain  — 
His  cities  he  ravished  again  and  again; 

The  Gulf  it  knew  him,  and  all  that  coast, 

For  he  was  one  of  America's  host  — 
And  now  there  is  nothing  but  English  speech 
For  leagues  and  leagues,  and  reach  on  reach, 

From  the  Rio  Grande  away  to  the  Pole; 

While  the  billows  beat  and  the  oceans  roll 
On  the  Three  Americas. 

Five  fearless  knights  have  filled  gallant  graves 

This  many  and  many  a  day, 
Some   under   the    willows,    some   under   the 

waves — 

American  sailors  they; 
And  still  in  the  West 
Is  their  valor  blest, 
Where  a  banner  bright 
With  the  ocean's  blue 
And  the  red  wrack's  hue 
And  the.  spoondrift's  white 

Is  smiling  to-day 
Through  the  salt  sea  spray 
Upon  American  sailors. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CHAPTER  III 


THE   SETTLEMENT   OF   VIRGINIA 


England  laid  claim  to  the  continent  of  North 
America  by  virtue  of  the  discoveries  of  John  Cabot 
in  1497,  but  little  effort  was  made  toward  coloni 
zation  until  1584,  when  an  expedition  sent  out 
by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  explored  Albemarle  Sound 
and  the  adjacent  coast,  and  brought  back  so 
glowing  a  description  of  the  country  that  Eliza 
beth  named  the  whole  region  Virginia,  in  honor 
of  her  maidenhood.  An  abortive  attempt  to  settle 
Hoanoke  Island  was  made  in  1585,  and  in  1587 
another  expedition  under  John  White  landed  there. 
White  returned  to  England  in  the  fall  to  represent 
the  needs  of  the  settlement,  leaving  behind  him 
his  daughter  and  little  granddaughter,  —  Vir 
ginia  Dare,  the  first  white  child  born  in  America. 
He  promised  to  return  within  a  year,  but  was 
intercepted  by  Spaniards,  and  it  was  not  until 
August,  1590,  that  he  again  dropped  anchor  off 
the  island.  When  he  went  ashore  next  day,  not 
a  trace  of  the  colonists  could  be  found,  nor  was 
their  fate  ever  certainly  discovered. 


THE   MYSTERY   OF   CRO-A-TAN 


[August  27,  1587] 

THE  home-bound  ship  stood  out  to  sea, 

And  on  the  island's  marge, 
Sir  Richard  waited  restlessly 

To  step  into  the  barge. 

"The  Governor  tarrieth  long,"  he  chode, 

"As  he  were  loth  to  go: 
With  food  before,  and  want  behind, 

There  should  be  haste,  I  trow." 

Even  as  he  spake,  the  Governor  came:  — 

"Nay,  fret  not,  for  the  men 
Have  held  me  back  with  frantic  let, 

To  have  them  home  again. 

"The  women  weep;  —  'Ay,  ay,  the  ship 

Will  come  again'  (he  saith), 
'Before  the  May;  —  Before  the  May 

We  shall  have  starved  to  death!' 

"I've  sworn  return  by  God's  dear  leave, 
I've  vowed  by  court  and  crown, 

Nor  yet  appeased  them.  Comrade,  thou, 
Mayhap,  canst  soothe  them  down." 


Sir  Richard  loosed  his  helm,  and  stretched 

Impatient  hands  abroad :  — 
"Have  ye  no  trust  in  man?"  he  cried, 

"Have  ye  no  faith  in  God? 

"Your  Governor  goes,  as  needs  he  must, 

To  bear  through  royal  grace, 
Hither,  such  food-supply,  that  want 

May  never  blench  a  face. 

"Of  freest  choice  ye  willed  to  leave 

What  so  ye  had  of  ease; 
For  neither  stress  of  liege  nor  law 

Hath  forced  you  over  seas. 

"Your  Governor  leaves  fair  hostages 

As  costliest  pledge  of  care,  — 
His  daughter  yonder,  and  her  child, 

The  child  Virginia  Dare! 

"Come  hither,  little  sweetheart!   Lo! 

Thou 'It  be  the  first,  I  ween, 
To  bend  the  knee,  and  send  through  me 
Thy  birthland's  virgin  fealty 

Unto  its  Virgin  Queen. 

"And  now,  good  folk,  for  my  commands: 

If  ye  are  fain  to  roam 
Beyond  this  island's  narrow  bounds, 

To  seek  elsewhere  a  home,  — 

"Upon  some  pine-tree's  smoothen  trunk 

Score  deep  the  Indian  name 
Of  tribe  or  village  where  ye  haunt, 

That  we  may  read  the  same. 

"And  if  ye  leave  your  haven  here 

Through  dire  distress  or  loss, 
Cut  deep  within  the  wood  above 

The  symbol  of  the  cross. 

"And  now  on  my  good  blade,  I  swear, 

And  seal  it  with  this  sign, 
That  if  the  fleet  that  sails  to-day 
Return  not  hither  by  the  May, 

The  fault  shall  not  be  mine!" 


THE   MYSTERY  OF   CRO-A-TAN 


37 


ii 

[August  15,  1590] 

The  breath  of  spring  was  on  the  sea; 

Anon  the  Governor  stepped 
His  good  ship's  deck  right  merrily,  — 

His  promise  had  been  kept. 

"See,  see!  the  coast-line  comes  in  view!" 
He  heard  the  mariners  shout,  — 

"We'll  drop  our  anchors  in  the  Sound 
Before  a  star  is  out!" 

"Now  God  be  praised!"  he  inly  breathed, 
"Who  saves  from  all  that  harms; 

The  morrow  morn  my  pretty  ones 
Will  rest  within  my  arms." 

At  dawn  of  day  they  moored  their  ship, 

And  dared  the  breakers'  roar: 
What  meant  it  ?    not  a  man  was  there 

To  welcome  them  ashore! 

They  sprang  to  find  the  cabins  rude; 

The  quick  green  sedge  had  thrown 
Its  knotted  web  o'er  every  door, 

And  climbed  the  chimney-stone. 

The  spring  was  choked  with  winter's  leaves, 

And  feebly  gurgled  on; 
And  from  the  pathway,  strewn  with  wrack, 

All  trace  of  feet  was  gone. 

Their  fingers  thrid  the  matted  grass, 

If  there,  perchance,  a  mound 
Unseen  might  heave  the  broken  turf; 

But  not  a  grave  was  found. 

They  beat  the  tangled  cypress  swamp, 

If  haply  in  despair 
They  might  have  strayed  into  its  glade: 

But  found  no  vestige  there. 

"  The  pine !  the  pine ! "  the  Governor  groaned ; 

And  there  each  staring  man 
Read  in  a  maze,  one  single  word, 

Deep  carven,  —  CRO-A-TAN  ! 

But  cut  above,  no  cross,  no  sign, 

No  symbol  of  distress; 
Naught  else  beside  that  mystic  line 

Within  the  wilderness ! 

And  where  and  what  was  "  CRO-A-TAN  "  ? 
But  not  an  answer  came; 


And  none  of  all  who  read  it  there 
Had  ever  heard  the  name. 

The  Governor  drew  his  jerkin  sleeve 

Across  his  misty  eyes; 
"Some  land,  maybe,  of  savagery 

Beyond  the  coast  that  lies; 

"And  skulking  there  the  wily  foe 

In  ambush  may  have  lain: 
God's  mercy !    Could  such  sweetest  heads 

Lie  scalped  among  the  slain  ? 

"O  daughter!  daughter!  with  the  thought 

My  harrowed  brain  is  wild! 
Up  with  the  anchors!  I  must  find 

The  mother  and  the  child!" 

They  scoured  the  mainland  near  and  far: 
The  search  no  tidings  brought; 

Till  mid  a  forest's  dusky  tribe 
They  heard  the  name  they  sought. 

The  kindly  natives  came  with  gifts 
Of  corn  and  slaughtered  deer; 

What  room  for  savage  treachery 
Or  foul  suspicion  here  ? 

Unhindered  of  a  chief  or  brave, 

They  searched  the  wigwam  through; 
But  neither  lance  nor  helm  nor  spear, 
Nor  shred  of  child's  nor  woman's  gear, 
Could  furnish  forth  a  clue. 

How  could  a  hundred  souls  be  caught 

Straight  out  of  life,  nor  find 
Device  through  which  to  mark  their  fate, 

Or  leave  some  hint  behind  ? 

Had  winter's  ocean  inland  rolled 

An  eagre's  deadly  spray, 
That  overwhelmed  the  island's  breadth 

And  swept  them  all  away  ? 

In  vain,  in  vain,  their  heart-sick  search! 

No  tidings  reached  them  more; 
No  record  save  that  silent  word 

Upon  that  silent  shore. 

The  mystery  rests  a  mystery  still, 

Unsolved  of  mortal  man : 
Sphinx-like  untold,  the  ages  hold 

The  tale  of  CRO-A-TAN  ! 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


149038 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


In  April,  1606,  James  I  sanctioned  the  forma 
tion  of  two  Virginia  colonies,  and  the  first  colony 
set  sail  on  the  following  New  Year's  day  —  three 
vessels,  with  one  hundred  and  five  men,  under 
command  of  Christopher  Newport.  Twelve  weeks 
later,  they  landed  at  a  place  they  named  "Point 
Comfort,"  and  proceeded  up  a  great  river  which 
they  named  the  King's  and  afterwards  the  James. 
On  May  13,  1607,  the  colonists  landed  on  a  low 
peninsula  fifty  miles  up  the  river,  and  Captain 
Newport  selected  this,  against  many  protests, 
as  the  site  for  the  settlement.  They  christened 
the  place  Jamestown.  Captains  Newport,  Gos- 
iiold,  Smith,  and  Sickelmore  were  named  as  the 
resident  council  for  the  colony,  but  time  soon 
proved  Smith  the  ablest  man  in  the  company, 
and  the  leadership  fell  to  him. 


JOHN   SMITH'S   APPROACH   TO 
JAMESTOWN 

[May  13,  1607] 

I  PAUSE  not  now  to  speak  of  Raleigh's  dreams, 
Though  they  might  give  a  loftier  bard  fit 

themes : 

I  pause  not  now  to  tell  of  Ocracock, 
Where  Saxon  spray  broke  on  the  red-brown 

rock; 

Nor  of  my  native  river  which  glides  down 
Through  scenes  where  rose  a  happy  Indian 

town; 

But,  leaving  these  and  Chesapeake's  broad  bay, 
Resume  my  story  in  the  month  of  May, 
Where  England's  cross  —  St.   George's  en 
sign  —  flowed 
Where    ne'er    before    emblazoned    banner 

glowed ; 

Where  English  breasts  throbbed  fast  as  Eng 
lish  eyes 

Looked  o'er  the  waters  with  a  glad  surprise, — 
Looked  gladly  out  upon  the  varied  scene 
Where  stretched  the  woods  in  all  their  pomp 

of  green; 

Flinging  great  shadows,  beautiful  and  vast 
As  e'er  upon  Arcadian  lake  were  cast. 
Turn  where  they  would,  in  what  direction  rove, 
They  found  some  bay,  or  wild,  romantic  cove, 
On  which  they  coasted  through  those  forests 

dim, 

Wherein  they  heard  the  never-ceasing  hymn 
That    swelled    from    all   the   tall,    majestic 

pines,  — 
Fit  choristers  of  Nature's  sylvan  shrines. 

For  though  no  priest  their  solitudes  had  trod, 
The  trees  were  vocal  in  their  praise  of  God. 


And  then,  when,  capes  and  jutting  headlands 

past, 

The  sails  were  furled  against  each  idle  mast, 
They  saw  the  sunset  in  its  pomp  descend, 
And  sky  and  water  gloriously  contend 
For  gorgeousness  of  colors,  red  and  gold, 
And  tints  of  amethyst  together  rolled, 
Making  a  scene  of  splendor  and  of  rest 
As  vanquished  day  lit  camp-fires  in  the  West. 
And  when  the  light  grew  faint  on  wave  and 

strand, 

New  beauties  woke  in  this  enchanted  land, 
For  through  heaven's  lattice-work  of  crimson 

bars 

Like  angels  looked  the  bright  eternal  stars, 
And  then,  when  gathered  tints  of  purplish 

brown, 

A  golden  sickle,  reaping  darkness  down, 
The  new  moon  shone  above  the  lofty  trees, 
Which    made    low    music    in    the   evening 

breeze,  — 
The  breeze  which  floating  blandly  from  the 

shore 
The  perfumed  breath  of  flowering  jasmine 

bore; 
For  smiling  Spring  had  kissed  its  clustering 

vines, 

And  breathed  her  fragrance  on  the  lofty  pines. 
JAMES  BARRON  HOPE. 

Captain  Smith  proved  himself  an  energetic 
and  effective  leader,  and  led  numerous  expedi 
tions  into  the  country  in  search  of  food.  On  one 
of  these,  in  December,  1607,  he  was  taken  prisoner 
and  was  conducted  to  the  camp  of  Powhatan, 
over-king  of  the  tribes  from  the  Atlantic  coast 
to  the  "  falls  of  the  river."  According  to  the  story 
he  sent  to  England  a  few  months  later,  he  was 
well  treated,  and  was  sent  back  to  Jamestown 
with  an  escort.  Eight  years  afterwards,  when 
writing  an  account  of  Powhatan's  younger  daugh 
ter,  Pocahontas,  who  was  then  in  England,  for 
the  entertainment  of  Queen  Anne,  he  embellished 
this  plain  and  probably  truthful  tale  with  the  ro 
mantic  incidents  so  long  received  as  history. 

POCAHONTAS 

[January  5,  1608] 

WEARIED  arm  and  broken  sword 
Wrage  in  vain  the  desperate  fight; 

Round  him  press  a  countless  horde, 
He  is  but  a  single  knight. 

Hark !  a  cry  of  triumph  shrill 
Through  the  wilderness  resounds, 
As,  with  twenty  bleeding  wounds, 

Sinks  the  warrior,  fighting  still. 


BERMUDAS 


39 


Now  they  heap  the  funeral  pyre, 
And  the  torch  of  death  they  light; 

Ah !  't  is  hard  to  die  by  fire ! 

Who  will  shield  the  captive  knight  ? 

Round  the  stake  with  fiendish  cry 
Wheel  and  dance  the  savage  crowd, 
Cold  the  victim's  mien  and  proud, 

And  his  breast  is  bared  to  die. 

Who  will  shield  the  fearless  heart? 

Who  avert  the  murderous  blade  ? 
From  the  throng  with  sudden  start 

See,  there  springs  an  Indian  maid. 
Quick  she  stands  before  the  knight: 

"Loose  the  chain,  unbind  the  ring! 

I  am  daughter  of  the  king, 
And  I  claim  the  Indian  right!" 

Dauntlessly  aside  she  flings 

Lifted  axe  and  thirsty  knife, 
Fondly  to  his  heart  she  clings. 

And  her  bosom  guards  his  life! 
In  the  woods  of  Powhatan, 

Still  't  is  told  by  Indian  fires 

How  a  daughter  of  their  sires 
Saved  a  captive  Englishman. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

The  way  in  which  the  Pocahontas  incident  has 
been  handled  by  the  poets  is  an  interesting  and 
joyous  study.  These  stanzas  of  Morris's  are  too 
delicious  to  be  omitted. 

POCAHONTAS 

UPON  the  barren  sand 

A  single  captive  stood; 
Around  him  came,  with  bow  and  brand, 

The  red  men  of  the  wood. 
Like  him  of  old,  his  doom  he  hears, 

Rock-bound  on  ocean's  brim  — 
The  chieftain's  daughter  knelt  in  tears, 

And  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 

Above  his  head  in  air 

The  savage  war-club  swung: 
The  frantic  girl,  in  wild  despair, 

Her  arms  about  him  flung. 
Then  shook  the  warriors  of  the  shade, 

Like  leaves  on  aspen  limb. 
Subdued  by  that  heroic  maid 

Who  breathed  a  prayer  for  him ! 

"Unbind  him!"  gasped  the  chief: 
"It  is  your  king's  decree!" 


He  kiss'd  away  the  tears  of  grief, 

And  set  the  captive  free! 
'T  is  ever  thus,  when  in  life's  storm 

Hope's  star  to  man  grows  dim, 
An  angel  kneels,  in  woman's  form, 

And  breathes  a  prayer  for  him. 

GEORGE  POPE  MORRIS. 


The  colony  did  not  flourish  as  had  been  hoped, 
and  in  May,  1609,  the  King  granted  a  new  charter 
with  larger  powers  and  privileges,  and  a  new 
company  was  formed,  of  which  Sir  Thomas  Gates, 
Lord  De  La  Warr,  and  Sir  George  Somers  were 
made  the  officers.  A  large  expedition  sailed  from 
England  June  2, 1609,  in  charge  of  Gates,  Somers, 
and  Captain  Newport,  who  were  on  the  Sea  Ven 
ture.  During  a  violent  hurricane,  their  ship  was 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  fleet  and  cast  ashore 
upon  the  Bermudas,  whose  beauties  were  so 
eloquently  sung  by  Andrew  Marvell. 

BERMUDAS 

WHERE  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat,  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song: 

"What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise, 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks. 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelates'  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care, 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air; 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows; 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land, 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore; 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast, 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Oh !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt, 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  Bay." 

Thus  sung  they,  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note: 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

ANDREW  MARVELL. 


The  passengers  and  crew  of  the  Sea  Venture 
managed  to  get  to  land,  and  finally  built  two 
pinnaces,  in  which  they  reached  Virginia  May  24, 
1610.  They  found  the  colonists  in  a  desolate  and 
miserable  condition,  and  only  the  timely  arrival 
of  Lord  De  La  Warr  in  the  following  month  (June 
9,  1610),  with  fresh  supplies  and  colonists,  pre 
vented  them  from  burning  the  town  and  sailing 
back  to  England.  Among  the  passengers  on  the 
Sea  Venture  was  one  Richard  Rich.  He  shared 
in  all  the  adventures  and  hardships  of  the  voyage, 
and  finally  got  back  to  England  in  the  fall  of  1610. 
On  October  1  he  published  an  account  of  the 
voyage,  called  "Newes  from  Virginia,"  the  first 
poem  written  by  a  visitor  to  America. 


NEWES   FROM   VIRGINIA 

[September,  1610] 

IT  is  no  idle  fabulous  tale,  nor  is  it  fayned 

newes : 
For  Truth  herself  is  heere  arriv'd,  because 

you  should  not  muse. 
With  her  both  Gates  and  Newport  come,  to 

tell  Report  doth  lye, 
Which  did  divulge  unto  the  world,  that  they 

at  sea  did  dye. 

Tis   true   that    eleaven  months  and  more, 

these  gallant  worthy  wights 
War  in  the  shippe  Sea-venture  nam'd  de- 

priv'd  Virginia's  sight. 
And  bravely  did  they  glyde  the  maine,  till 

Neptune  gan  to  frowne, 
As  if  a  courser  proudly  backt  would  throwe 

his  ryder  downe. 

The  seas  did  rage,  the  windes  did  blowe, 

distressed  were  they  then; 
Their  ship  did  leake,  her  tacklings  breake, 

in  daunger  were  her  men. 
But  heaven  was  pylotte  in  this  storme,  and  to 

an  iland  nere, 
Bermoothawes  call'd,  conducted  then,  which 

did  abate  their  feare. 


But  yet  these  worthies  forced  were,  opprest 

with  weather  againe, 
To  runne  their  ship  betweene  two  rockes, 

where  she  doth  still  remaine. 
And  then  on  shoare  the  iland  came,  inhabited 

by  hogges, 
Some  foule  and  tortoyses  there  were,  they 

only  had  one  dogge. 

To  kill  these  swyne,  to  yeild  them  foode  that 

little  had  to  eate, 
Their  store  was  spent,  and  all  things  scant, 

alas!  they  wanted  meate. 
A  thousand  hogges  that  dogge  did  kill,  their 

hunger  to  sustaine, 
And  with  such  foode  did  in  that  ile  two  and 

forty  weekes  remaine. 

And  there  two  gallant  pynases  did  build  of 

seader-tree ; 
The  brave  Deliverance  one  was  call'd;  of 

seaventy  tonne  was  shee. 
The  other  Patience  had  to  name,  her  burthen 

thirty  tonne; 
Two  only  of  their  men  which  there  pale  death 

did  overcome. 

And  for  the  losse  of  these  two  soules,  which 

were  accounted  deere, 
A  son  and  daughter  then  was  borne,  and  were 

baptized  there. 
The  two  and  forty  weekes  being  past,  they 

hoyst  sayle  and  away; 
Their  ships  with  hogges  well  freighted  were, 

their  harts  with  mickle  joy. 

And  so  unto  Virginia  came,  where  these  brave 

soldiers  finde 
The  English-men  opprest  with  greife  and 

discontent  in  minde. 
They   seem'd   distracted   and   forlorne,   for 

those  two  worthyes  losse, 
Yet  at  their  home  returne  they  joy'd,  among'st 

them  some  were  crosse. 

And  in  the  mid'st  of  discontent  came  noble 

Delaware ; 
He  heard  the  greifes  on  either  part,  and  sett 

them  free  from  care. 
He  comforts  them  and  cheeres  their  hearts, 

that  they  abound  with  joy; 
He  feedes  them  full  and  feedes  their  souls 

with  Gods  word  every  day. 


NEWES    FROM  VIRGINIA 


A   discreet   counsell   he   creates   of  men   of 

worthy  fame, 
That  noble  Gates  leiftenant  was  the  admirall 

had  to  name. 
The  worthy  Sir  George  Somers  knight,  and 

others  of  commaund; 
Maister  Georg  Pearcy,  which  is  brother  unto 

Northumberland. 

Sir  Fardinando  Wayneman  Knight,  and 
others  of  good  fame, 

That  noble  lord  his  company,  which  to  Vir 
ginia  came, 

And  landed  there;  his  number  was  one  hun 
dred  seaventy;  then 

Ad  to  the  rest,  and  they  make  full  foure  hun 
dred  able  men. 

Where  they  unto  their  labour  fall,  as  men 

that  meane  to  thrive; 
Let's  pray  that  heaven  may  blesse  them  all, 

and  keep  them  long  alive. 
Those  men  that  vagrants  liv'd  with  us,  have 

there  deserved  well; 
Their  governour  writes  in  their  praise,  as 

divers  letters  tel. 

And  to  th'  adventurers  thus  he  writes  be  not 
dismayed  at  all, 

For  scandall  cannot  doe  us  wrong,  God  will 
not  let  us  fall. 

Let  England  knowe  our  willingnesse,  for  that 
our  worke  is  goode; 

Wee  hope  to  plant  a  nation,  where  none  be 
fore  hath  stood. 

To  glorifie  the  lord  tis  done;  and  to  no  other 

end; 
He  that  would  crosse  so  good  a  work,  to  God 

can  be  no  friend. 
There  is  no  feare  of  hunger  here  for  corne 

much  store  here  growes, 
Much  fish  the  gallant  rivers  yeild,  tis  truth 

without  suppose. 

Great  store  of  fowle,  of  venison,  of  grapes 

and  mulberries, 
Of  chestnuts,  walnuts,  and  such  like,  of  fruits 

and  strawberries, 
There  is  indeed  no  want  at  all,  but  some, 

condiciond  ill, 
That  wish  the  worke  should  not  goe  on  with 

words  doe  seeme  to  kill. 


And  for  an  instance  of  their  store,  the  noble 

Delaware 
Hath  for  the  present  hither  sent,  to  testify 

his  care 
In  mannaging  so  good  a  worke,  to  gallant 

ships,  by  name. 
The  Blessing  and  the  Hercules,  well  fraught, 

and  in  the  same 

Two   ships,    as   these   commodities,   furres, 

sturgeon,  caviare, 
Black  walnut-tree,  and  some  deale  boards, 

with  such  they  laden  are; 
Some  pearle,  some  wainscot  and  clapboards, 

with  some  sassafras  wood, 
And  iron  promist,  for  tis  true  their  mynes 

are  very  good. 

Then  maugre  scandall,  false  report,  or  any 

opposition, 
Th'  adventurers  doe  thus  devulge  to  men 

of  good  condition. 
That  he  that  wants  shall  have  reliefe,  be  he 

of  honest  minde, 
Apparel,  coyne,  or  any  thing,  to  such  they 

will  be  kinde. 

To  such  as  to  Virginia  do  purpose  to  re- 

paire; 
And  when  that  they  shall  hither  come,  each 

man  shall  have  his  share. 
Day  wages  for  the  laborer,  and  for  his  more 

content, 
A  house  and  garden  plot  shall  have;  besides, 

tis  further  ment 

That  every  man  shall  have  a  part,  and  not 
thereof  denaid, 

Of  generall  profit,  as  if  that  he  twelve  pounds 
ten  shillings  paid; 

And  he  that  in  Virginia  shall  copper  coyne 
receive, 

For  hyer  or  commodities,  and  will  the  coun 
try  leave 

Upon  delivery  of  such  coyne  unto  the  Gov 
ernour, 

Shall  by  exchange  at  his  returne  be  by  their 
treasurer 

Paid  him  in  London  at  first  sight,  no  man 
shall  cause  to  grieve, 

For  tis  their  generall  will  and  wish  that  every 
man  should  live- 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  number  of  adventurers,  that  are  for  this 

plantation, 
Are  full  eight  hundred  worthy  men,  some 

noble,  all  of  fashion. 
Good,  discreete,  their  worke  is  good,  and  as 

they  have  begun, 
May  Heaven  assist  them  in  their  worke,  and 

thus  our  newes  is  done. 

RICHARD  RICH. 


Lord  Delaware's  stay  in  Virginia  marked  the 
turning-point  in  the  fortunes  of  the  colony.  New 
settlements  were  made,  tobacco  culture  was  be 
gun,  and  Virginia  seemed  at  last  fairly  started 
on  the  road  to  prosperity. 


TO  THE   VIRGINIAN   VOYAGE 

[1611] 

You  brave  heroic  minds, 
Worthy  your  country's  name, 

That  honor  still  pursue, 

Go  and  subdue, 
Whilst  loitering  hinds 
Lurk  here  at  home,  with  shame. 

Britons,  you  stay  too  long: 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 
And  with  a  merry  gale 
Swell  your  stretch'd  sail, 
With  vows  as  strong 
As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 

Your  course  securely  steer, 
West  and  by  south  forth  keep! 

Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals, 

When  Eolus  scowls, 
You  need  not  fear, 
So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea, 
Success  you  still  entice, 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold, 

And  ours  to  hold 
Virginia, 
Earth's  only  paradise. 

Where  nature  hath  in  store 
Fowl,  venison,  and  fish, 

And  the  fruitful'st  soil, 

Without  your  toil, 
Three  harvests  more. 
All  greater  than  your  wish. 


And  the  ambitious  vine 
Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 

The  cedar  reaching  high 

To  kiss  the  sky, 
The  cypress,  pine, 
And  useful  sassafras. 

To  whom  the  Golden  Age 
Still  nature's  laws  doth  give, 

No  other  cares  attend, 

But  them  to  defend 
From  winter's  rage, 
That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 
Of  that  delicious  land, 

Above  the  seas  that  flows, 

The  clear  wind  throws, 
Your  hearts  to  swell 
Approaching  the  dear  strand; 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 
(Thanks  to  God  first  given) 

O  you  the  happiest  men, 

Be  frolic  then! 
Let  cannons  roar, 
Frighting  the  wide  heaven; 

And  in  regions  far 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth 

As  those  from  whom  we  came, 

And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  star 
Not  known  unto  our  North; 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 
Of  laurel  everywhere,  — 

Apollo's  sacred  tree,  — 

You  it  may  see, 
A  poet's  brows 
To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

Thy  Voyages  attend 
Industrious  Hackluit, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 

Men  to  seek  fame, 
And  much  commend 
To  after-times  thy  wit. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


Among  the  planters  at  Jamestown  was  John 
Rolfe,  a  zealous  Christian,  who  became  interested 
in  Pocahontas.  Finally,  either  captivated  by 
her  grace  and  beauty  as  the  romancists  believe, 
or  in  spite  of  personal  scruples  and  "  for  the  good 


LAST  MEETING  OF  POCAHONTAS  AND  THE  GREAT  CAPTAIN  43 


of  the  colony,"  as  Hamor  wrote,  he  proposed  mar 
riage.  The  Princess  was  willing,  her  father  con 
sented,  though  he  refused  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremony  (April  5, 1614),  and  the  bride  was  given 
away  by  her  uncle  Opachisco.  They  had  one  son, 
Thomas  Rolfe,  whose  descendants  are  still  living 
in  Virginia. 

THE   MARRIAGE   OF   POCAHONTAS 

[April  5,  1614] 

THAT  balmy  eve,  within  a  trellised  bower, 
Rudely  constructed  on  the  sounding  shore, 
Her  plighted  troth  the  forest  maiden  gave 
Ere  sought  the  skiff  that  bore  them  o'er  the 

wave 
To  the  dark  home-bound  ship,  whose  restless 

sway 
Rocked  to  the  winds  and  waves,  impatient 

of  delay. 


Short  was  the  word  that  pledged  triumphant 

love ; 

That  vow,  that  claims  its  registry  above. 
And  low  the  cadence  of  that  hymn  of  praise 
Whose  hallowed  incense  rose,  as  rose  its  lays ; 
And  few  the  worshippers  'neath  that  pure 

cope 
Which  emblems  to  the  soul  eternal  hope. 

One  native  maiden  waited  the  command 
Of  the  young  Princess  of  Virginia's  strand; 
And  that  dark  youth,  the  Page  of  Cedar  Isle, 
Who  wept  her  woes,  and  shared  her  sad  exile. 
With  his  loved  bride,  who  owned  the  royal 

blood, 
And  near  the  forest  Queen  majestically  stood. 

Some  others  bent  beside  the  rural  shrine 
In  adoration  to  the  Power  divine; 
When  at  the  altar  knelt,  with  minds  serene. 
The  gallant  Soldier  and   the  dark-browed 
Queen. 

These,  for  the  love  they  bore  her  guileless 

youth. 

Paid  the  high  fealty  of  the  warm  heart's  truth ; 
And  with  its  homage  satisfied,  gone  o'er 
Each  vision  bright  that  graced  their  natal 

shore. 

Those,  with  forebodings  dread  and  brimful 

eyes, 
Bade  holy  angels  guard  the  destinies 


Of  one  on  whom  had  fallen  the  chrism  of  light 
With  unction  pure;  the  youthful  neophyte 
Of  that  fair  clime  where  millions  yet  unborn 
Shall  raise  the  choral  hymn  from  eve  till 
morn. 

MRS.  M.  M.  WEBSTER. 


In  1616  Pocahontas  was  taken  to  England, 
where  she  was  received  with  marked  attention 
by  the  Queen  and  court.  She  renewed  her  ac 
quaintance  with  Captain  John  Smith,  who  was 
busy  weaving  fairy  tales  about  her,  had  her  por 
trait  painted  and  led  a  fashionable  life  generally. 
It  did  not  agree  with  her,  she  developed  consump 
tion,  and  died  at  Gravesend,  March  27,  1617. 


THE  LAST  MEETING  OF  POCAHON 
TAS  AND  THE  GREAT  CAPTAIN 

[June,  1616] 

IN  a  stately  hall  at  Brentford,  when  the  Eng 
lish  June  was  green, 

Sat  the  Indian  Princess,  summoned  that  her 
graces  might  be  seen, 

For  the  rumor  of  her  beauty  filled  the  ear 
of  court  and  Queen. 

There  for  audience  as  she  waited,  with  half- 
scornful,  silent  air 

All  undazzled  by  the  splendor  gleaming 
round  her  everywhere, 

Dight  in  broidered  hose  and  doublet,  came 
a  courtier  down  the  stair. 

As  with  striding  step  he  hasted,  burdened 
with  the  Queen's  command, 

Loud  he  cried,  in  tones  that  tingled,  "Wel 
come,  welcome,  to  my  land  !  " 

But  a  tremor  seized  the  Princess,  and  she 
drooped  upon  her  hand. 

"  What !  no  word,  my  Sparkling- Water  ? 
must  I  come  on  bended  knee  ? 

I  were  slain  within  the  forest,  I  were  dead 
beyond  the  sea; 

On  the  banks  of  wild  Pamunkey,  I  had  per 
ished  but  for  thee. 

"Ah,  I  keep  a  heart  right  loyal,  that  can  never 

more  forget! 
I  can  hear  the  rush,  the  breathing;  I  can  see 

the  eyelids  wet; 
I  can  feel  the  sudden  tightening  of  thine  arms 

about  me  yet. 


44 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"Nay,  look  up.  Thy  father's  daughter  never 

feared  the  face  of  man, 
Shrank  not  from  the  forest  darkness  when 

her  doe-like  footsteps  ran 
To  my  cabin,  bringing  tidings  of  the  craft 

of  Powhatan." 

With  extended  arms,  entreating,  stood  the 

stalwart  Captain  there, 
While  the  courtiers  press  around  her,  and 

the  passing  pages  stare; 
But  no  sign  gave  Pocahontas  underneath  her 

veil  of  hair. 

All  her  lithe  and  willowy  figure  quivered  like 
an  aspen-leaf, 

And  she  crouched  as  if  she  shrivelled,  frost- 
touched  by  some  sudden  grief, 

Turning  only  on  her  husband,  Rolfe,  one 
glance,  sharp,  searching,  brief. 

At  the  Captain's  haughty  gesture,  back  the 
curious  courtiers  fell, 

And  with  soothest  word  and  accent  he  be 
sought  that  she  would  tell 

Why  she  turned  away,  nor  greeted  him  whom 
she  had  served  so  well. 

But  for  two  long  hours  the  Princess  dumbly 

sate  and  bowed  her  head, 
Moveless  as  the  statue  near  her.    When  at 

last  she  spake,  she  said: 
"  White  man's  tongue  is  false.  It  told  me  — 

told  me  —  that  my  brave  was  dead. 

"And  I  lay  upon  my  deer-skins  all  one  moon 

of  falling  leaves 
(Who  hath  care  for  song  or  corn-dance,  when 

the  voice  within  her  grieves  ?), 
Looking  westward  where  the  souls  go,  up  the 

path  the  sunset  weaves. 

"Call  me  'child'  now.    It  is  over.    On  my 

husband's  arm  I  lean ; 
Never  shadow,  Nenemoosa,  our  twain  hearts 

shall  come  between; 
Take  my  hand,  and  let  us  follow  the  great 

Captain  to  his  Queen." 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


In  1676  the  colony  was  shaken  by  a  struggle 
which  presaged  that  other  one  which  was  to  occur 
just  a  century  later.  An  Indian  war  had  broken 
out  along  the  frontier,  but  Governor  Berkeley 
disbanded  the  forces  gathered  to  repress  it.  Where 


upon  a  young  man  named  Nathaniel  Bacon  ga 
thered  a  force  of  his  own,  marched  against  the 
Indians,  and  was  proclaimed  a  rebel  and  traitor 
by  the  royal  governor,  who  had  collected  at  James 
town  a  force  of  nearly  a  thousand  men.  Bacon, 
after  a  campaign  in  which  the  hostile  Indians 
were  practically  wiped  out  of  existence,  marched 
back  to  Jamestown  and  besieged  the  place.  After 
a  sally  in  which  he  was  repulsed,  Berkeley  sailed 
away  and  left  the  town  to  its  fate.  Bacon  entered 
it  next  morning  (September  19,  1676),  and,  de 
ciding  that  he  could  not  hold  it,  set  fire  to  it  that 
evening.  It  was  totally  destroyed. 

THE   BURNING   OF   JAMESTOWN 

fSeptember  19,  1676] 

MAD  Berkeley  believed,  with  his  gay  cavaliers, 
And   the   ruffians   he   brought   from    the 

Accomac  shore, 

He  could  ruffle  our  spirit  by  rousing  our  fears, 
And  lord  it  again  as  he  lorded  before: 
It  was  —  "Traitors,  be  dumb!" 
And  —  "Surrender,  ye  scum !" 
And  that  Bacon,  our  leader,  was  rebel,  he 
swore. 

A  rebel  ?  Not  he!  He  was  true  to  the  throne; 
For  the  King,  at  a  word,  he  would  lay 

down  his  life; 

But  to  listen  unmoved  to  the  piteous  moan 
When  the  redskin  was  plying  the  hatchet 

and  knife, 

And  shrink  from  the  fray, 
Was  not  the  man's  way  — 
It  was  Berkeley,  not  Bacon,  who  stirred  up 
the  strife. 

On  the  outer  plantations  the  savages  burst, 
And  scattered  around  desolation  and  woe; 
And  Berkeley,  possessed  by  some  spirit  accurst, 
Forbade  us  to  deal  for  our  kinsfolk  a  blow; 
Though  when,  weapons  in  hand, 
We  made  our  demand, 
He  sullenly  suffered  our  forces  to  go. 

Then  while  we  were  doing  our  work  for  the 

crown, 

And  risking  our  lives  in  the  perilous  fight, 

He  sent  lying  messengers  out,  up  and  down, 

To  denounce  us  as  outlaws  —  mere  malice 

and  spite; 

Then  from  Accomac's  shore 
Brought  a  thousand  or  more, 
Who   swaggered   the   country   around,   day 
and  night. 


BACON'S   EPITAPH,   MADE   BY  HIS   MAN 


45 


Returning  in  triumph,  instead  of  reward 
For  the  marches  we  made  and  the  battles 

we  won, 
There  were  threats  of  the  fetters  or  bullet  or 

sword  — 
Were  these  a  fair  guerdon  for  what  we  had 

done? 

When  this  madman  abhorred 
Appealed  to  the  sword, 

And  our  leader  said  "fight!"  did  he  think  we 
would  run? 

Battle-scarred,  and  a  handful  of  men  as  we 

were, 
We  feared  not  to  combat  with  lord  or  with 

lown, 
So  we  took  the  old  wretch  at  his  word  — 

that  was  fair; 
But  he  dared  not  come  out  from  his  hold 

in  the  town 

Where  he  lay  with  his  men, 
Like  a  wolf  in  his  den; 
And  in  siege  of  the  place  we  sat  steadily  down. 

He  made  a  fierce  sally,  —  his  force  was  so 

strong 
He  thought  the  mere  numbers  would  put 

us  to  flight,  — 
But  we  met  in  close  column  his  ruffianly 

throng, 
And  smote  it  so  sore  that  we  filled  him 

with  fright; 

Then  while  ready  we  lay 
For  the  storming  next  day, 
He  embarked  in  his  ships,  and  escaped  in 
the  night. 

The  place  was  our  own;  could  we  hold  it? 

why,  no! 
Not  if  Berkeley  should  gather  more  force 

and  return; 

But  one  course  was  left  us  to  baffle  the  foe  — 
The  birds  would  not  come  if  the  nest  we 

should  burn; 
So  the  red,  crackling  fire 
Climbed  to  roof-top  and  spire, 
A  lesson  for  black-hearted  Berkeley  to  learn. 

That  our  torches  destroyed  what  our  fathers 

had  raised 

On  that  beautiful  isle,  is  it  matter  of  blame  ? 
That  the  houses  we  dwelt  in,  the  church 

where  they  praised 

The  God  of  our  Fathers,  we  gave  to  the 
Same? 


That  we  smiled  when  there  lay 
Smoking  ruins  next  day, 
And  nothing  was  left  of  the  town  but  its 
name? 

We  won;  but  we  lost  when  brave  Nicholas 

died; 
The  spirit  that  nerved  us  was  gone  from 

us  then; 
And  Berkeley  came  back  in  his  arrogant 

pride 

To  give  to  the  gallows  the  best  of  our  men ; 
But  while  the  grass  grows 
And  the  clear  water  flows, 
The  town  shall  not  rise  from  its  ashes  again. 

So,  you  come  for  your  victim!    I'm  ready; 

but,  pray, 
Ere  I  go,  some  good  fellow  a  full  goblet 

bring. 
Thanks,  comrade!  Now  hear  the  last  words 

I  shall  say 
With  the  last  drink  I  take.   Here 's  a  health 

to  the  King, 
Who  reigns  o'er  a  land 
Where,  against  his  command, 
The  rogues  rule  and  ruin,  while  honest  men 
swing. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Jamestown  soon  avenged  itself.  Before  Bacon 
left  the  place  he  was  ill  with  fever,  and  on  the 
first  day  of  October,  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in 
Gloucester  County,  he  "surrendered  up  that  fort 
he  was  no  longer  able  to  keep,  into  the  hands  of 
the  grim  and  all-conquering  Captain,  Death."  His 
death  was  celebrated  in  a  poem  which  is  perhaps 
the  most  brilliant  example  of  sustained  poetic  art 
produced  in  Colonial  America.  It  was  written  "  by 
his  man,"  of  whom  absolutely  nothing  is  known. 


BACON'S   EPITAPH,   MADE   BY  HIS 

MAN 

[October  1,  1676] 

DEATH,  why  so  cruel  ?  What !  no  other  way 
To  manifest  thy  spleen,  but  thus  to  slay 
Our  hopes  of  safety,  liberty,  our  all, 
Which,  through  thy  tyranny,  with  him  must 

fall 

To  its  late  chaos  ?  Had  thy  rigid  force 
Been  dealt  by  retail,  and  not  thus  in  gross, 
Grief  had  been  silent.    Now  we  must  com 
plain, 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Since  thou,  in  him,  hast  more  than  thousands 

slain, 

Whose  lives  and  safeties  did  so  much  depend 
On  him  their  life,  with  him  their  lives  must 

end. 

If  't  be  a  sin  to  think  Death  brib'd  can  be 
We  must  be  guilty ;  say  't  was  bribery 
Guided  the  fatal  shaft.  Virginia's  foes, 
To  whom  for  secret  crimes  just  vengeance 

owes 

Deserved  plagues,  dreading  their  just  desert, 
Corrupted  Death  by  Paracelsian  art 
Him  to  destroy;    whose  well-tried  courage 

such, 
Their  heartless  hearts,  nor  arms,  nor  strength 

could  touch. 
Who  now  must  heal  those  wounds,  or  stop 

that  blood 

The  Heathen  made,  and  drew  into  a  flood? 
Who  is  't  must  plead  our  cause  ?  nor  trump, 

nor  drum, 

Nor  Deputation ;  these,  alas !  are  dumb 
And  cannot  speak.   Our  arms  (though  ne'er 

so  strong) 

Will  want  the  aid  of  his  commanding  tongue, 
Which    conquer'd    more    than    Caesar.     He 

o'erthrew 

Only  the  outward  frame;  this  could  subdue 
The  rugged  works  of  nature.    Souls  replete 
With  dull  chill  ccld,  he'd  animate  with  heat 
Drawn  forth  of  reason's  limbec.   In  a  word, 
Mars  and  Minerva  both  in  him  concurred 
For  arts,  for  arms,  whose  pen  and  sword  alike 
As  Cato's  did,  may  admiration  strike 
Into  his  foes;  while  they  confess  withal 
It  was  their  guilt  styl'd  him  a  criminal. 
Only  this  difference   does  from   truth  pro 
ceed: 

They  in  the  guilt,  he  in  the  name  must  bleed. 
While  none  shall  dare  his  obsequies  to  sing 
In  deserv'd  measures;  until  time  shall  bring 
Truth  crown'd  with  freedom,  and  from  dan 
ger  free 
To  sound  his  praises  to  posterity. 

Here  let  him  rest;   while  we  this  truth 

report, 

He's  gone  from  hence  unto  a  higher  Court 
To  plead  his  cause,  where  he  by  this  doth 

know 
Whether  to  Csesar  he  was  friend  or  foe. 


Jamestown  never  recovered  from  the  blow 
which  Bacon  dealt  it.  The  location  was  so  un 
healthy  that  it  could  not  attract  new  settlers, 


and  though  some  of  the  houses  which  had  been 
burned  were  subsequently  rebuilt,  the  town's 
day  of  greatness  was  past.  The  seat  of  govern 
ment  was  removed  to  Williamsburg,  and  the  old 
settlement  dropped  gradually  to  decay. 


ODE   TO   JAMESTOWN 

OLD  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 

In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  awhile,  ere  she  unfurled 

Her  gallant  wing  and  soared  away; 
All  hail !  thou  birthplace  of  the  glowing  west. 
Thou   seem'st  the  towering   eagle's   ruined 
nest! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 
As,  wandering  these  old  stones  among, 

I  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall 
sound. 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combined 

In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies; 
They  throng  upon  my  wakened  mind, 

As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 
The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Condensed  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 

I  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 
I  see  the  lonely  little  bark 
Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 
Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 
As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  't  was  hurled, 
With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  the  train  of  exiles  stand, 

Amid  the  desert,  desolate, 
The  fathers  of  my  native  land, 
The  daring  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  braved  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And  gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 

I  see  the  sovereign  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air; 
I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change, 
The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare; 
And  where  the  red  man  chased  the  bounding 

deer, 
The  smiling  labors  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 
In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 


ODE  TO   JAMESTOWN 


47 


As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn, 
While  he,    the  monarch   of  the   boundless 

wood, 

By  sport,  or  hair-brained  rapine,  wins  his 
food. 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone; 

The  red  men  are  no  more; 
The  pale-faced  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore; 
And  the  proud  wood-king,  who  their  arts 

disdained, 

Finds  but  a  bloody  grave  where  once  he 
reigned. 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  sturdy  woodman's  axe; 
The  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke, 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest 

fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labor  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads, 

And  gathering  crowds  expand, 
Far  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land, 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds, 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free; 
One  empire  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny, 

Destined  their  daring  race  to  run, 
Each  to  the  regions  of  yon  setting  sun. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 
The   fount   whence   these   rich    waters 

sprung,     ' 
I  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 

And  find  it  these  rude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  round, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long; 

The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains; 
They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious  strains. 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity  to  me 
More  touching  is  than  poet's  rhapsody. 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe; 
They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 


And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 

As  bright  a  crown  as  e'er  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  the  green-leaved  bough, 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks, 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land, 
No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 

Can  mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand 
Without  a  moistened  eye,  a  grateful  tear 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder 
here. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round, 

Of  him  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career 
Is  written  on  this  sacred  ground 

In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere; 
Who  in  the  Old  World  smote  the  turbaned 

crew, 
And  founded  Christian  empires  in  the  New. 

And  she!  the  glorious  Indian  maid, 

The  tutelary  of  this  land, 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade, 
The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand, 
Who  joined  man's  heart  to  woman's  softest 

grace, 
And   thrice  redeemed   the  scourges  of  her 


Sister  of  charity  and  love, 

Whose  life-blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  goddess  of  the  sylvan  grove, 

Flower  of  the  forest,  nature's  pride, 
He  is  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  woman  who  is  not  like  thee! 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallowed  rock 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be,  — 
I  care  not  who  my  themes  may  mock, 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand 
Without  a  thrill  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  the  recreant  crawl  her  earth, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air, 
Or  in  New  England  claim  his  birth, 

From  the  old  pilgrims  there. 
He  is  a  bastard  if  he  dare  to  mock 
Old    Jamestown's    shrine    or     Plymouth's 
famous  rock. 

JAMES  KIRKE  PATJLDING. 


In  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
pirates  did  a  thriving  trade  along  the  American 


48 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


coast.  One  of  the  most  redoubtable  of  these  was 
Captain  Teach,  better  known  as  "  Blackbeard." 
After  a  long  career  of  variegated  villainy,  he  was 
cornered  in  Pamiico  Inlet,  in  1718,  and  killed, 
together  with  most  of  his  crew,  by  a  force  sent 
after  him  by  Governor  Spottiswood  of  Virginia. 
His  death  was  celebrated  in  a  ballad  said  to  have 
been  written  by  Benjamin  Franklin. 


THE   DOWNFALL   OF   PIRACY 

[November  22,  1718] 

WILL  j'ou  hear  of  a  bloody  Battle, 

Lately  fought  upon  the  Seas  ? 
It  will  make  your  Ears  to  rattle, 

And  your  Admiration  cease; 
Have  you  heard  of  Teach  the  Rover, 

And  his  Knavery  on  the  Main; 
How  of  Gold  he  was  a  Lover, 

How  he  lov'd  all  ill-got  Gain  ? 

When  the  Act  of  Grace  appeared, 

Captain  Teach,  with  all  his  Men, 
Unto  Carolina  steered. 

Where  they  kindly  us'd  him  then; 
There  he  marry'd  to  a  Lady, 

And  gave  her  five  hundred  Pound, 
But  to  her  he  prov'd  unsteady, 

For  he  soon  march'd  off  the  Ground. 

And  returned,  as  I  tell  you, 

To  his  Robbery  as  before, 
Burning,  sinking  Ships  of  value, 

Filling  them  with  Purple  Gore; 
When  he  was  at  Carolina, 

There  the  Governor  did  send 
To  the  Governor  of  Virginia, 

That  he  might  assistance  lend. 

Then  the  Man-of- War's  Commander, 

Two  small  Sloops  he  fitted  out, 
Fifty  Men  he  put  on  board,  Sir, 

Who  resolv'd  to  stand  it  out; 
The  Lieutenant  he  commanded 

Both  the  Sloops,  and  you  shall  hear 
How,  before  he  landed, 

He  suppress'd  them  without  fear. 

Valiant  Maynard  as  he  sailed, 

Soon  the  Pirate  did  espy, 
WTith  his  Trumpet  he  then  hailed, 

And  to  him  they  did  reply: 
Captain  Teach  is  our  Commander, 

Maynard  said,  he  is  the  Man 


Whom  I  am  resolv'd  to  hang,  Sir, 
Let  him  do  the  best  he  can. 

Teach  replyed  unto  Maynard, 

You  no  Quarter  here  shall  see, 
But  be  hang'd  on  the  Mainyard, 

You  and  all  your  Company; 
Maynard  said,  I  none  desire 

Of  such  Knaves  as  thee  and  thine, 
None  I  '11  give,  Teach  then  replyed. 

My  Boys,  give  me  a  Glass  of  Wine. 

He  took  the  Glass,  and   drank  Damna 
tion 

Unto  Maynard  and  his  Crew; 
To  himself  and  Generation, 

Then  the  Glass  away  he  threw; 
Brave  Maynard  was  resolv'd  to  have  him, 

Tho'  he'd  Cannons  nine  or  ten; 
Teach  a  broadside  quickly  gave  him, 

Killing  sixteen  valiant  Men. 

Maynard  boarded  him,  and  to  it 

They  fell  with  Sword  and  Pistol  too; 
They  had  Courage,  and  did  show  it, 

Killing  of  the  Pirate's  Crew. 
Teach  and  Maynard  on  the  Quarter, 

Fought  it  out  most  manfully, 
Maynards  Sword  did  cut  him  shorter,  / 

Losing  his  head,  he  there  did  die. 

Every  Sailor  fought  while  he,  Sir, 

Power  had  to  wield  the  Sword, 
Not  a  Coward  could  you  see,  Sir, 

Fear  was  driven  from  aboard; 
Wounded  Men  on  both  Sides  fell,  Sir, 

'T  was  a  Joleful  Sight  to  see, 
Nothing  could  their  Courage  quell,  Sir, 

O,  they  fought  courageously. 

When  the  bloody  Fight  was  over, 

We  're  informed  by  a  Letter  writ, 
Teach's  Head  was  made  a  Cover, 

To  the  Jack  Staff  of  the  Ship; 
Thus  they  sailed  to  Virginia, 

And  when  they  the  Story  told, 
How  they  kill'd  the  Pirates  many, 

They  'd  Applause  from  young  and  old. 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.  ( ?) 


On  the  twenty-second  day  of  February,  1732 
(February  12,  O.  S.),  there  was  born  in  West 
moreland  County,  Virginia,  a  son  to  Augustine 
and  Mcry  (Ball)  Washington.  The  baby  was 


FROM   POTOMAC  TO   MERRIMAC 


49 


christened  George,  and  lived  to  become  the  most 
famous  personage  in  American  history. 


FROM    POTOMAC    TO    MERRIMAC 

[February  11,  1732] 

I.  POTOMAC  SIDE 

Do  you  know  how  the  people  of  all  the  land 
Knew  at  last  that  the  time  was  at  hand 
When  He  should  be  sent  to  give  command 
To  armies  and  people,  to  father  and  son! 
How  the  glad  tidings  of  joy  should  run 
Which  tell  of  the  birth  of  Washington  9 

Three  women  keep  watch  of  the  midnight 

sky 

Where  Potomac  ripples  below; 
They  watch  till  the  light  in  the  window  hard 

by 

The  birth  of  the  child  shall  show. 
Is  it  peace  ?    Is  it  strife  ? 
Is  it  death?    Is  it  life? 
The  light  in  the  window  shall  show! 
Weal  or  woe! 
We  shall  know! 

The  women  have  builded  a  signal  pile 

For  the  birthday's  welcome  flame, 
That  the  light  may  show  for  many  a  mile 
To  tell  when  the  baby  came! 
And  south  and  north 
The  word  go  forth 
That  the  boy  is  born 
On  that  blessed  morn; 
The  boy  of  deathless  fame! 

II.  SIGNAL  FIRES 

The  watchmen  have  waited  on  Capitol  Hill 
And  they  light  the  signal  flame; 

And  at  Baltimore  Bay  they  waited  till 
The  welcome  tidings  came; 

And  then  across  the  starlit  night, 

At  the  head  cf  Elk  the  joyful  light 


Told  to  the  Quaker  town  the  story  • 
Of  new-born  life  and  coming  glory ! 
To  Trenton  Ferry  and  Brooklyn  Height 
They  sent  the  signal  clear  and  bright, 

And  far  away, 

Before  the  day, 

To  Kaatskill  and  Greylock  the  joyful  flame 
And  everywhere  the  message  came, 

As  the  signal  flew 

The  people  knew 
That  the  man  of  men  was  born ! 


III.   MERRIMAC   SIDE,   AND   AGIOCHOOK 

So  it  is,  they  say,  that  the  men  in  the  bay, 

In  winter's  ice  and  snow. 
See  the  welcome  light  on  Wachusett  Height 
While  the  Merrimac  rolls  below. 
The  cheery  fire 
Rose  higher  and  higher, 
Monadnock  and  Carrigain  catch  the  flame, 
And  on  and  on,  and  on  it  came, 
And  as  men  look 

Far  away  in  the  north 
The  word  goes  forth, 
To  Agiochook. 
The  welcome  fire 
Flashed  higher  and  higher 
To  our  mountain  ways, 
And  the  dome,  and  Moat  and  Pequawket 
blaze! 

So  the  farmers  in  the  Intervale 
See  the  light  that  shall  never  fail, 
The  beacon  light  which  shines  to  tell 
To  all  the  world  to  say 

That  the  boy  has  been  born 
On  that  winter's  morn 
By  Potomac  far  away. 
W'hose  great  command 
Shall  bless  that  land 
Whom  the  land  shall  bless 
In  joy  and  distress 
Forever  and  a  day! 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HAL.T: 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   DUTCH   AT   NEW  AMSTERDAM 


On  the  fourth  day  of  April,  1609,  there  put  out 
from  the  port  of  Amsterdam  a  little  craft  of  about 
eighty  tons,  called  the  Half  Moon.  It  had  been 
chartered  by  the  Dutch  East  India  Company  to 
search  for  the  Northwest  Passage.  Its  captain 
was  Henry  Hudson,  and  on  September  3  he  cast 
anchor  inside  Sandy  Hook. 


HENRY   HUDSON'S   QUEST 

[1609] 

Our  from  the  harbor  of  Amsterdam 

The  Half  Moon  turned  her  prow  to  sea ; 
The  coast  of  Norway  dropped  behind, 

Yet  Northward  still  kept  she 
Through   the   drifting  fog  and  the  driving 

snow, 

Where  never  before  man  dared  to  go: 
"O  Pilot,  shall  we  find  the  strait  that  leads 

to  the  Eastern  Sea?" 

"A  waste  of  ice  before  us  lies  —  we  must 
turn  back,"  said  he. 

Westward  they  steered  their  tiny  bark, 

Westward  through  weary  weeks  they  sped, 
Till  the  cold  gray  strand  of  a  stranger-land 

Loomed  through  the  mist  ahead. 
League  after  league  they  hugged  the  coast, 
And  their  Captain  never  left  his  post: 
"O  Pilot,  see  you  yet  the  strait  that  leads 

to  the  Eastern  Sea?" 

"I  see  but  the  rocks  and  the  barren  shore; 
no  strait  is  there,"  quoth  he. 

They  sailed  to  the  North  —  they  sailed  to 

the  South  — 

And  at  last  they  rounded  an  arm  of  sand 
Which    held    the   sea    from   a    harbor's 

mouth  — 

The  loveliest  in  the  land; 
They  kept  their  course  across  the  bay, 
And  the  shore  before  them  fell  away: 
"O  Pilot,  see  you  not  the  strait  that  leads  to 

the  Eastern  Sea?" 

"Hold  the  rudder  true!   Praise  Christ  Jesu! 
the  strait  is  here,"  said  he. 

Onward  they  glide  with  wind  and  tide, 
Past  marshes  gray  and  crags  sun-kist; 


They  skirt  the  sills  of  green-clad  hills, 

And  meadows  white  with  mist  — 
But  alas!  the  hope  and  the  brave,  brave 

dream ! 

For  rock  and  shallow  bar  the  stream : 
"O  Pilot,  can  this  be  the  strait  that  leads  to 

the  Eastern  Sea  ? " 

"Nay,  Captain,  nay;  't  is  not  this  way;  turn 
back  we  must,"  said  he. 

Full  sad  was  Hudson's  heart  as  he  turned 
The  Half  Moon's  prow  to  the  South 

once  more; 
He  saw  no  beauty  in  crag  or  hill, 

No  beauty  in  curving  shore; 
For  they  shut  him  away  from  that  fabled 

main 

He  sought  his  whole  life  long,  in  vain: 
"  O  Pilot,  say,  can  there  be  a  strait  that  leadj 

to  the  Eastern  Sea?" 

"  God's  crypt  is  sealed !  'T  will  stand  revealed 
in  His  own  good  time,"  quoth  he. 
BURTON  EGBERT  STEVENSON. 


A  few  days  were  spent  in  exploring  the  bay, 
and  on  September  6  occurred  the  only  fatality 
that  marked  the  voyage.  A  seaman  named  John 
Colman,  with  four  sailors,  was  sent  out  in  a  small 
boat  to  sound  the  Narrows,  and  encountered 
some  Indians,  who  sent  a  flight  of  arrows  toward 
the  strangers.  One  of  the  arrows  pierced  Colman's 
throat,  killing  him. 

THE  DEATH  OF   COLMAN 

[September  6,  1609] 

'T  WAS  Juet  spoke  —  the  Half  Moon's  mate. 
And  they  who  Holland's  ship  of  state 
Compass'd  with  wisdom,  listening  sate: 

Discovery's  near-extinguished  spark 

Flared  up  into  a  blaze, 
When  Man-na-hat-ta's  virgin  hills, 

Enriched  by  Autumn's  days, 
First  fell  on  our  impatient  sight, 
And  soothed  us  with  a  strange  delight. 

Bidden  by  fevered  trade,  our  keel 
Had  ploughed  unbeaten  deeps; 


ADRIAN  BLOCK'S    SONG 


From  many  a  perfume-laden  isle 

To  the  dark  land  that  sleeps 
Forever  in  its  winter  robe, 
Th'  unsocial  hermit  of  the  globe. 

But  we,  who  sought  for  China's  strand 

By  ocean  ways  untried, 
Forgot  our  mission  when  we  cast 

Our  anchor  in  a  tide 
That  kissed  a  gem  too  wondrous  fair 
For  any  eastern  sea  to  wear ! 

Entranced,  we  saw  the  golden  woods 

Slope  gently  to  the  sands; 
The  grassy  meads,  the  oaks  that  dwarfed 

Their  kin  of  other  lands; 
And  from  the  shore  the  balmy  wind 
Blew  sweeter  than  the  spice  of  Ind. 

As  he  whose  eyes,  though  opened  wide, 

Are  fixed  upon  a  dream, 
So  Colman  —  one  who  long  had  held 

Our  Hudson's  warm  esteem  — 
Gazed  on  the  gorgeous  scene,  and  said, 
"Ere  even's  shades  are  overspread, 

"Proudly  our  flag  on  yonder  height 

Shall  tell  of  Holland's  gain; 
Proclaiming  her  to  all  the  earth 

The  sovereign  of  the  main." 
And  quickly  from  the  Half  Moon's  bow 
We  turned  the  longboat's  yielding  prow. 

The  measured  flashing  of  the  oars 

Broke  harshly  on  the  ear; 
And  eye  asked  eye  —  for  lips  were  mute  — 

What  Holland  hearts  should  fear; 
For  true  it  is  our  hearts  were  soft, 
Save  his,  who  held  the  flag  aloft. 

And  suddenly  our  unshaped  dread 
Took  direful  form  and  sound. 

For  from  a  near  nook's  rocky  shade, 
Swift  as  pursuing  hound, 

A  savage  shallop  sped,  to  hold 

From  stranger  feet  that  strand  of  gold. 

And  rageful  cries  disturbed  the  peace 

That  on  the  waters  slept; 
And  Echo  whispered  on  the  hills, 

As  though  an  army  crept, 
With  flinty  axe  and  brutal  blade, 
Through  the  imperforate  forest  shade. 


"  What !  are  ye  cravens  ?  "  Colman  said ; 

For  each  had  shipped  his  oar. 
He  waved  the  flag:  "For  Netherland, 

Pull  for  yon  jutting  shore ! " 
Then  prone  he  fell  within  the  boat, 
A  flinthead  arrow  through  his  throat! 

And  now  full  many  a  stealthy  skiff 

Shot  out  into  the  bay ; 
And  swiftly,  sadly,  pulled  we  back 

To  where  the  Half  Moon  lay; 
But  he  was  dead  —  our  master  wept  — 
He  smiled,  brave  heart,  as  though  he  slept. 

Then  to  the  seaward  breeze  our  sail 

With  woful  hearts  we  threw; 
And  anchored  near  a  sandy  strip 

That  looks  o'er  ocean  blue: 
And  there  we  kissed  and  buried  him, 
While  surges  sang  his  funeral  hymn. 

And  many  a  pitying  glance  we  gave, 

And  many  a  prayer  we  said, 
As  from  that  grave  we  turned,  and  left 

The  dark  sea  with  her  dead; 
For  —  God  of  Waves !  —  none  could  repress 
One  choking  thought  —  the  loneliness  I 

THOMAS  FKOST. 


Hudson  ascended  the  river  to  a  point  a  little 
above  the  present  town  of  Albany,  then  turned 
back  and  returned  to  Holland.  His  report  of  the 
rich  country  he  had  discovered  was  received  with 
enthusiasm  there,  and  preparations  were  begun 
on  an  extensive  scale  to  colonize  the  new  country. 
Dutch  voyagers  explored  all  the  adjacent  coasts, 
among  the  most  active  being  Adrian  Block. 


ADRIAN   BLOCK'S   SONG 

fJuly,  1615] 

HARD  aport!  Now  close  to  shore  sail! 

Starboard  now,  and  drop  your  foresail! 
See,  boys,  what  yon  bay  discloses, 
What  yon  open  bay  discloses ! 
Where  the  breeze  so  gently  blows  is 
Heaven's  own  land  of  ruddy  roses. 

Past  the  Cormorant  we  sail, 
Past  the  rippling  Beaver  Tail, 
Green  with  summer,  red  with  flowers. 
Green  with  summer,  fresh  with  showers. 
Sweet  with  song  and  red  with  flowers, 
Is  this  new-found  land  of  ours! 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Roses  close  above  the  sand, 
Roses  on  the  trees  on  land, 
I  shall  take  this  land  for  my  land, 
Rosy  beach  and  rosy  highland, 
And  I  name  it  Roses  Island. 

EDWAKD  EVERETT  HALE. 


But  troubles  at  home  prevented  any  extensive 
effort  at  colonization  until  1621,  when  the  States- 
General  chartered  the  Dutch  West  India  Com 
pany,  which  in  1623  sent  Captain  Cornelius  Jacob- 
sen  Mey,  with  thirty  families,  to  start  the  colony. 


THE  PRAISE   OF  NEW  NETHER- 
LAND 

WITH  sharpened  pen  and  wit,  one  tunes  his 

lays, 

To  sing  the  vanity  of  fame  and  praise; 
His  moping  thoughts,  bewildered  in  a  maze, 

In  darkness  wander. 
What   brings   disgrace,   what   constitutes   a 

wrong, 

These  form  the  burden  of  the  tuneful  song: 
And  honor  saved,  his  senses  then  among 

The  dark  holes  ponder. 
For  me,  it  is  a  nobler  thing  I  sing. 
New  Netherland  springs  forth  my  heroine; 
Where  Amstel's  folk  did  erst  their  people 
bring, 

And  still  they  flourish. 
New  Netherland,  thou  noblest  spot  of  earth, 
Where  Bounteous  Heaven  ever  poureth  forth 
The  fulness  of  His  gifts,  of  greatest  worth, 

Mankind  to  nourish. 
Whoe'er  to  you  a  judgment  fair  applies, 
And  knowing,  comprehends  your  qualities, 
Will  justify  the  man  who,  to  the  skies, 

Extols  your  glories. 

Who  studies  well  your  natural  elements, 
And  with  the  plumb  of  science,  gains  a  sense 
Of  all  the  four :  fails  not  in  their  defence, 

Before  free  juries. 

Your  Air,  so  clear,  so  sharp  to  penetrate, 
The  western  breezes  softly  moderate; 
And,  tempering  the  heat,  they  separate 

It  from  all  moisture. 
From  damp,  and  mist,  and  fog,  they  set  it 

free; 

From  smells  of  pools,  they  give  it  liberty: 
The  struggling  stenches  made  to  mount  on 
high, 

And  be  at  peace  there. 


No  deadly  pest  its  purity  assails, 

To  spread  infection  o'er  your  hills  and  valeS; 

Save  when  a  guilty  race,  great  sins  bewails 

In  expiating. 

Your  Sun,  th'  original  of  Fire  and  heat, 
The  common  nutriment  of  both  to  eat, 
Is  warm  and  pure;  in  plants  most  delicate, 

Much  sap  creating. 
Nor  turf,  nor  dried  manure,  —  within  your 

doors, 

Nor  coal,  extracted  from  earth's  secret  stores, 
Nor  sods,  uplifted  from  the  barren  moors, 

For  fuel  given; 

Which,  with  foul  stench  the  brain  intoxicate, 
And  thus,  by  the  foul  gas  which  they  create. 
The  intellects  of  many,  wise  and  great, 

Men  are  out-driven. 

The  forests  do,  with  better  means,  supply 
The  hearth  and  house;  the  stately  hickory, 
Not  planted,  does  the  winter  fell  defy,  — 

A  valiant  warden; 

So  closely  grained,  so  rich  with  fragrant  oil, 
Before  its  blaze  both  wet  and  cold  recoil; 
And  sweetest  perfumes  float  around  the  while, 

Like  'n  Eden's  garden. 
The  Water  clear  and  fresh,  and  pure  and 

sweet, 

Springs  up  continually  beneath  the  feet, 
And  everywhere  the  gushing  fountains  meet, 

In  brooks  o'erflowing, 

Which  animals  refresh,  both  tame  and  wild ; 
And  plants  conduce  to  grow  on  hill  and  field ; 
And  these  to  man  unnumbered  comforts  yield, 

And  quickly  growing. 

The  Earth  in  soils  of  different  shades  ap 
pears, 
Black,  blue  and  white,  and  red;  its  bosom 

bears 
Abundant  harvests ;  and,  what  pleases,  spares 

Not  to  surrender. 
No  bounds  exist  to  their  variety. 
They  nourishment  afford  most  plenteously 
To  creatures  which,  in  turn,  man's  wants 
supply 

And  health  engender. 
O  fruitful  land!   heaped  up  with  blessings 

kind. 
Whoe'er    your    several    virtues    brings    to 

mind,  — 
Its  proper  value  to  each  gift  assigned, 

Will  soon  discover, 
If  ever  land  perfection  have  attained. 
That  you  in  all  things  have  that  glory  gained ; 
Ungrateful  mortal,  who,  your  worth  disdained, 
Would  pass  you  over. 


THE   COMPLAINT   OF   NEW  AMSTERDAM 


53 


In  North  America,  behold  your  Seat, 
Where  all  that  heart  can  wish  you  satiate, 
And  where  oppressed  with  wealth  inordinate, 

You  have  the  power 

To  bless  the  people  with  whate'er  they  need, 
The  melancholy,  from  their  sorrows  lead, 
The  light  of  heart,  exulting  pleasures  cede, 

Who  never  cower. 

The  Ocean  laves  secure  the  outer  shore, 
Which,  like  a  dyke,  is  raised  your  fields  before ; 
And  streams,  like  arteries,  all  veined  o'er, 

The  woods  refreshing; 
And  rolling  down  from  mountains  and  the 

hills, 

Afford,  upon  their  banks,  fit  sites  for  mills; 
And  furnish,  what  the  heart  with  transport  fills, 

The  finest  fishing. 

JACOB  STEENDAM. 

Other  expeditions  followed,  but  though  the 
colony  prospered,  the  mother  country  could  pro 
vide  little  means  of  defence,  and  it  was  practically 
at  the  mercy  of  the  English  —  the  "swine"  of 
Steendam's  verses. 

THE   COMPLAINT  OF  NEW 
AMSTERDAM 

[1659] 

I  'M  a  grandchild  of  the  gods 
Who  on  th'  Amstel  have  abodes; 
Whence  their  orders  forth  are  sent, 
Swift  for  aid  and  punishment. 

I,  of  Amsterdam,  was  born, 
Early  of  her  breasts  forlorn; 
From  her  care  so  quickly  weaned 
Oft  have  I  my  fate  bemoaned. 

From  my  youth  up  left  alone, 
Naught  save  hardship  have  I  known; 
Dangers  have  beset  my  way 
From  the  first  I  saw  the  day. 

Think  you  this  a  cause  for  marvel  ? 
This  will  then  the  thread  unravel, 
And  the  circumstances  trace, 
Which  upon  my  birth  took  place. 

Would  you  ask  for  my  descent? 
Long  the  time  was  it  I  spent 
In  the  loins  of  warlike  Mars. 
'T  seems  my  mother,  seized  with  fears, 

Prematurely  brought  me  forth. 
But  I  now  am  very  loth 
To  inform  how  this  befel; 
Though  't  was  thus,  I  know  full  well, 

Bacchus,  too,  —  it  is  no  dream,  — 


First  beheld  the  daylight's  beam 
From  the  thigh  of  Jupiter. 
But  my  reasons  go  too  far. 

My  own  matter  must  I  say, 
And  not  loiter  by  the  way, 
E'en  though  Bacchus  oft  has  proven 
Friend  to  me  in  my  misfortune. 

Now  the  midwife  who  received  me, 
Was  Bellona;  in  suspense,  she 
Long  did  sit  in  trembling  fear, 
For  the  travail  was  severe. 

From  the  moment  I  was  born, 
Indian  neighbors  made  me  mourn. 
They  pursued  me  night  and  day, 
While  my  mother  kept  away. 

But  my  sponsors  did  supply 
Better  my  necessity; 
They  sustained  my  feeble  life; 
They  procured  a  bounteous  wife 

As  my  nurse,  who  did  not  spare 
To  my  lips  her  paps  to  bear. 
This  was  Ceres;  freely  she 
Rendered  what  has  nurtured  me. 

Her  most  dearly  I  will  prize; 
She  has  made  my  horns  to  rise; 
Trained  my  growth  through  tender  years, 
'Midst  my  burdens  and  my  cares. 

True  both  simple  't  was  and  scant, 
What  I  had  to  feed  my  want. 
Oft  'twas  naught  except  Sapawn 
And  the  flesh  of  buck  or  fawn. 

When  I  thus  began  to  grow, 
No  more  care  did  they  bestow, 
Yet  my  breasts  are  full  and  neat, 
And  my  hips  are  firmly  set. 

Neptune  shows  me  his  good  will; 
Merc'ry,  quick,  exerts  his  skill 
Me  t'  adorn  with  silk  and  gold; 
Whence  I'm  sought  by  suitors  bold. 

Stricken  by  my  cheek's  fresh  bloom, 
By  my  beauteous  youthful  form, 
They  attempt  to  seize  the  treasure 
To  enjoy  their  wanton  pleasure. 

They,  my  orchards  too,  would  plunder, 
Truly  't  is  a  special  wonder, 
That  a  maid  with  such  a  portion 
Does  not  suffer  more  misfortune: 

For,  I  venture  to  proclaim, 
No  one  can  a  maiden  name 
Who  with  richer  land  is  blessed 
Than  th'  estate  by  me  possessed. 

See:  two  streams  my  garden  bind. 
From  the  East  and  North  they  wind,  -^ 
Rivers  pouring  in  the  sea, 
Rich  in  fish,  beyond  degree. 


54 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Milk  and  butter;  fruits  to  eat 
No  one  can  enumerate; 
Ev'ry  vegetable  known; 
Grain  the  best  that  e'er  was  grown. 

All  the  blessings  man  e'er  knew, 
Here  does  Our  Great  Giver  strew 
(And  a  climate  ne'er  more  pure), 
But  for  me,  —  yet  immature, 

Fraught  with  danger,  for  the  swine 
Trample  down  these  crops  of  mine; 
Up-root,  too,  my  choicest  land; 
Still  and  dumb,  the  while,  I  stand, 

In  the  hope,  my  mother's  arm 
Will  protect  me  from  the  harm. 
She  can  succor  my  distress. 
Now  my  wish,  my  sole  request,  — 

Is  for  men  to  till  my  land; 
So  I'll  not  in  silence  stand. 
I  have  lab'rors  almost  none; 
Let  my  household  large  become; 

I'll  my  mother's  kitchen  furnish 
With  my  knick-knacks,  with  my  surplus; 
With  tobacco,  furs  and  grain; 
So  that  Prussia  she'll  disdain. 

JACOB  STEENDAM, 
noch  vaster. 


In  spite  of  this  neglect,  the  new  town  thrived 
apace.  Friendly  relations  were  established  with 
the  settlers  at  Plymouth,  and  the  colony  seemed 
to  be  moving  steadily  toward  a  golden  future. 
In  May,  1647,  there  arrived  from  Holland  the  new 
director,  Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  ruled  supreme 
until  1664,  when  New  Amsterdam  surrendered  to 
an  English  fleet. 


PETER   STUYVESANT'S   NEW 
YEAR'S   CALL 

[I.  Jan.  A.  c.  1661] 

WHERE  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 

New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christened  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and 
psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topped  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly  gabled  town: 


These  flapped  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 
To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 

Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 

Betwixt  their  feather-beds; 
In  hose  and  breeches  walked  by  day, 

And  smoked,  and  wagged  their  heads. 
No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 

The  freulen  to  bewilder, 
And  cost  the  burgher's  purse,  perchance, 

Its  every  other  guilder. 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept. 
Few  modern-school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashioned  bundling. 

—  The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold; 

The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 
In  depth,  lay  over  Beeckman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well. 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen-doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then    stamped    through    drifts    to    do   the 
chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But  —  after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut  — 

To  all  the  gathered  town 
The  Dominie  preached  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown; 
While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyyesant 

Sat  pewed  in  foremost  station,  — 
The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 

Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 

Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile, 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 

In  gubernatorial  style; 
Yet  missed,  though  now  the  day  was  old. 

An  ancient  fellow-feaster,  — 
Heer  Govert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester ; 

Who,  in  his  farmhouse,  close  without 

The  picket's  eastern  end, 
Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 


PETER   STUYVESANT'S   NEW   YEAR'S   CALL 


55 


But  Peter  strapped  his  wooden  peg, 
When  tea  and  cake  were  ended 

(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 
Its  high  jack-boot  defended), 

A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 

And  swore,  by  wind  and  limb, 
Since  Govert  kept  from  Peter's  view, 

Peter  would  visit  him; 
Then  sallied  forth,  through  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humbler  greeter 
Stood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 

Past  quay  and  cowpath,  through  a  lane 

Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 
He  puffed  along,  with  might  and  main, 

To  Govert  Loockermans ; 
Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 

And  hailed  his  ancient  crony: 
"Myn  God!  in  dese  Manhattoes,  Loock, 

Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money!" 

To  which,  and  after  whiffs  profound, 

With  doubtful  wink  and  nod, 
There  came  at  last  responsive  sound: 

"Yah,  Peter;  yah,  Myn  God!" 
Then  goedevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 

Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 
And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 

To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 

She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 

That  years  before  had  come  — 
In  the  "Nieuw  Nederlandts,"  perhaps  — 

To  cheer  the  settlers'  home; 
The  long-stemmed  pipes ;  the  fragrant  roll 

Of  pressed  and  crispy  Spanish; 
Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 

Nor  long  delayed  to  vanish. 

Thereat,  with  cheery  nod  and  wink, 

And  honors  of  the  day, 
The  trader  mixed  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room !    I  see  it  now : 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor; 

The  brace  of  high-backed  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nailed  at  every  seam; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs; 

The  bacon  hung  abeam ; 


The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelft; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 

I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state: 
The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 

But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were,  — 

They  drank  the  Motherland; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
While  Govert  proudly  snowed  the  scars 

Of  Indian  contests  gory. 

Erelong,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains,  — 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  phantom  ships  and  battle; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 

Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  Netherlandish  reel; 
Till  midnight  o'er  the  farmhouse  spread 

Her  New  Year's  skirts  of  sable, 
And  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 

Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 

But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dreamed, 

The  table  spread  and  turned; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seemed 

To  circle  as  it  burned; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 

The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past. 
And  checkered  into  shining  blocks,  — 

A  city  fair  and  vast; 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 
The  metamorphosed  island, 

While  not  a  beaver  showed  his  head 
From  Swamp  to  Kalchook  highland. 

Eftsoons  the  picture  passed  away; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 

Gleam  in  through  fading  smoke; 
Still  slept  old  Govert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers; 


No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 
Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 

But  Peter,  from  the  farmhouse  door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 
The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead, 

Wind  east,  the  morning  lowery; 
And  on  he  pushed,  a  two-miles'  tread, 

To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 

EDMUND  CLAKENCE  STEDMAN. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE   SETTLEMENT   OF    NEW    ENGLAND 


The  Northern  or  Plymouth  Branch  of  the 
Virginia  Company,  which  had  been  chartered  by 
James  I  in  1606,  did,  to  some  extent,  for  the  north 
what  the  sister  company  did  for  the  south.  Sir 
Ferdinando  Gorges  was  its  Raleigh,  and  sent  out  a 
number  of  exploring  ships,  one  of  which  made  what 
is  now  reckoned  the  first  permanent  settlement  in 
New  England.  Captain  George  Popham  was  in 
command,  and  in  August,  1607,  three  months 
after  the  planting  of  Jamestown,  built  Fort  Pop- 
ham,  or  Fort  St.  George,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ken- 
nebec.  But  it  is  not  this  settlement  which  has 
been  celebrated  in  song  and  story.  It  is  that  made 
at  New  Plymouth  in  the  winter  of  1620  by  a  ship 
load  of  Separatists  from  the  Church  of  England, 
who  have  come  down  through  history  as  the  "  Pil 
grim  Fathers." 

Driven  from  England  by  religious  persecution, 
the  Separatist  congregation  from  the  little  town 
of  Scrooby,  about  a  hundred  in  number,  had  fled 
to  Amsterdam,  and  finally,  in  1609,  to  Leyden. 
But  they  were  not  in  sympathy  with  the  Dutch, 
and  their  thoughts  turned  to  America.  The 
Plymouth  company  was  approached,  but  could 
not  guarantee  religious  freedom.  It  gave  the  sup 
pliants  to  understand,  however,  that  there  was 
little  likelihood  they  would  be  interfered  with,  and 
after  long  debate  and  hesitation,  they  decided  to 
take  the  risk. 

THE  WORD  OF  GOD  TO  LEYDEN 
CAME 

[August  15  (N.  S.),  1620] 

THE  word  of  God  to  Leyden  came, 
Dutch  town  by  Zuyder  Zee: 

Rise  up,  my  children  of  no  name, 
My  kings  and  priests  to  be. 

There  is  an  empire  in  the  West, 
Which  I  will  soon  unfold; 


A  thousand  harvests  in  her  breast, 
Rocks  ribbed  with  iron  and  gold. 

Rise  up,  my  children,  time  is  ripe! 

Old  things  are  passed  away. 
Bishops  and  kings  from  earth  I  wipe; 

Too  long  they've  had  their  day. 
A  little  ship  have  I  prepared 

To  bear  you  o'er  the  seas; 
And  in  your  souls  my  will  declared 

Shall  grow  by  slow  degrees. 

Beneath  my  throne  the  martyrs  cry; 

I  hear  their  voice,  How  long? 
It  mingles  with  their  praises  high, 

And  with  their  victor  song. 
The  thing  they  longed  and  waited  for, 

But  died  without  the  sight; 
So,  this  shall  be!  I  wrong  abhor, 

The  world  I'll  now  set  right. 

Leave,  then,  the  hammer  and  the  loom, 

You've  other  work  to  do; 
For  Freedom's  commonwealth  there's  room, 

And  you  shall  build  it  too. 
I'm  tired  of  bishops  and  their  pride, 

I'm  tired  of  kings  as  well; 
Henceforth  I  take  the  people's  side, 

And  with  the  people  dwell. 

Tear  off  the  mitre  from  the  priest, 

And  from  the  king,  his  crown; 
Let  all  my  captives  be  released; 

Lift  up,  whom  men  cast  down. 
Their  pastors  let  the  people  choose, 

And  choose  their  rulers  too; 


LANDING   OF  THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS 


57 


Whom  they  select,  I'll  not  refuse, 
But  bless  the  work  they  do. 

The  Pilgrims  rose,  at  this,  God's  word, 

And  sailed  the  wintry  seas: 
With  their  own  flesh  nor  blood  conferred, 

Nor  thought  of  wealth  or  ease. 
They  left  the  towers  of  Leyden  town, 

They  left  the  Zuyder  Zee; 
And  where  they  cast  their  anchor  down, 

Rose  Freedom's  realm  to  be. 

JEREMIAH  EAMES  RANKIN. 


A  vessel  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  tons,  named 
the  Mayflower,  was  fitted  out,  and,  on  August  5 
(N.  S.  15),  1620,  the  emigrants  sailed  from  South 
ampton,  whither  they  had  gone  to  join  the  ship. 
There  were  ninety  persona  aboard  the  Mayflower 
and  thirty  aboard  a  smaller  vessel,  the  Speedwell. 
But  the  Speedwell  proved  unseaworthy,  and  after 
twice  putting  back  for  repairs,  twelve  of  her  pas 
sengers  were  crowded  into  the  Mayflower,  which 
finally,  on  September  6  (N.  S.  16),  turned  her  prow 
to  the  west,  and  began  the  most  famous  voyage 
in  American  history,  after  that  of  Columbus. 


SONG  OF  THE   PILGRIMS 

[September  16  (N.  S.),  1620] 

THE  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 
And,  bounding  with  the  wave  and  wind, 
We  leave  Old  England's  shores  behind  — 
Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 
Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 
The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  woe, 
Till  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud 
Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud; 
Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 
From  that  shore  we'll  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be, 
Than  dwell  where  mind  cannot  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod 
Even  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep! 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep! 

O  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes ! 
Another  land,  and  other  skies! 
Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view! 
Adieu!  Old  England's  shores,  adieu! 


Here,  at  length,  our  feet  shall  rest, 
Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blessed. 

As  long  as  yonder  firs  shall  spread 
Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head,  — 
As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand, 
Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land,  — 

Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 

Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we'll  raise 
The  paean  loud  of  sacred  praise; 
More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas ! 

Happier  lands  have  met  our  view! 

England's  shores,  adieu!  adieu! 

THOMAS  COGSWELL  UPHAM. 


On  November  19  (N.  S.),  nine  weeks  after 
leaving  Plymouth,  land  was  sighted,  and  in  the 
evening  of  that  day,  the  "  band  of  exiles  moored 
their  bark  "  in  Cape  Cod  harbor. 

LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS 

[November  19  (N.  S.),  1620] 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  the  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came: 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear,  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free! 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 
From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared: 
This  was  their  welcome  home! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band; 
Why  have  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine! 

Aye,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they 

found  — 
Freedom  to  worship  God ! 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 


Two  days  later,  on  Saturday,  November  21, 
the  Mayflower  dropped  her  anchor  in  what  is  now 
the  harbor  of  Provincetown,  and  a  force  of  six 
teen,  "every  one  his  Musket,  Sword  and  Corslet, 
under  the  command  of  Captaine  Myles  Standish," 
went  ashore  to  explore.  The  next  .day,  being 
Sunday,  praise  service  was  held  on  board,  and 
on  the  following  Monday  occurred  the  first  wash 
ing-day. 


THE    FIRST    PROCLAMATION    OF 
MILES   STANDISH 

[November  23  (N.  S.).  1620] 

"Ho,  Rose! "quoth  the  stout  Miles  Stand 
ish, 

As  he  stood  on  the  Mayflower's  deck, 
And  gazed  on  the  sandy  coast-line 

That  loomed  as  a  misty  speck 

On  the  edge  of  the  distant  offing,  — 

"See!  yonder  we  have  in  view 
Bartholomew  Gosnold's  '  headlands.' 

*T  was  in  sixteen  hundred  and  two 

"That  the  Concord  of  Dartmouth  anchored 
Just  there  where  the  beach  is  broad, 

And  the  merry  old  captain  named  it 

(Half  swamped  by  the  fish)  —  Cape  Cod. 


"And  so  as  his  mighty  'headlands' 

Are  scarcely  a  league  away, 
What  say  you  to  landing,  sweetheart, 

And  having  a  washing-day  ? 

"For  did  not  the  mighty  Leader 

Who  guided  the  chosen  band 
Pause  under  the  peaks  of  Sinai, 

And  issue  his  strict  command  — 

"  (For  even  the  least  assoilment 

Of  Egypt  the  spirit  loathes)  — 
Or  ever  they  entered  Canaan, 

The  people  should  wash  their  clothes  ? 

"The  land  we  have  left  is  noisome, — 
And  rank  with  the  smirch  of  sin; 

The  land  that  we  seek  should  find  us 
Clean-vestured  without  and  within." 

"Dear  heart"  —  and  the  sweet  Rose  StanoV 
ish 

Looked  up  with  a  tear  in  her  eye; 
She  was  back  in  the  flag-stoned  kitchen 

Where  she  watched,  in  the  days  gone  by, 

Her  mother  among  her  maidens 

(She  should  watch  them  no  more,  alas!), 

And  saw  as  they  stretched  the  linen 
To  bleach  on  the  Suffolk  grass. 

In  a  moment  her  brow  was  cloudless, 
As  she  leaned  on  the  vessel's  rail, 

And  thought  of  the  sea-stained  garments, 
Of  coif  and  of  farthingale; 

And  the  doublets  of  fine  Welsh  flannel, 

The  tuckers  and  homespun  gowns, 
And  the  piles  of  the  hosen  knitted 
•  From  the  wool  of  the  Devon  downs. 

So  the  matrons  aboard  the  Mayflower 

Made  ready  with  eager  hand 
To  drop  from  the  deck  their  baskets 

As  soon  as  the  prow  touched  land. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  Mothers, 
"On  a  Monday,"  the  record  says, 

Ordain  for  their  new-found  England 
The  first  of  her  washing-days. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
With  matchlock  and  axe  well  slung, 

Keep  guard  o'er  the  smoking  kettles 
That  propt  on  the  crotches  hung. 


THE   MAYFLOWER 


59 


For  the  trail  of  the  startled  savage 

Was  over  the  marshy  grass, 
And  the  glint  of  his  eyes  kept  peering 

Through  cedar  and  sassafras. 

And  the  children  were  mad  with  pleasure 
As  they  gathered  the  twigs  in  sheaves, 

And  piled  on  the  fire  the  fagots, 
And  heaped  up  the  autumn  leaves. 

"Do  the  thing  that  is  next,"  saith  the  pro 
verb, 

And  a  nobler  shall  yet  succeed :  — 
"T  is  the  motive  exalts  the  action ; 

'T  is  the  doing,  and  not  the  deed ; 

For  the  earliest  act  of  the  heroes 
Whose  fame  has  a  world-wide  sway 

Was  —  to  fashion  a  crane  for  a  kettle, 
And  order  a  washing-day ! 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


A  shallop  which  the  Pilgrims  had  brought  with 
them  in  the  Mayflower  was  put  together,  and 
in  it  a  party  explored  the  neighboring  shores, 
in  search  of  a  suitable  place  for  the  settlement. 
They  finally  selected  Plymouth  Harbor,  and  on 
Monday,  December  21  (O.  S.  11),  they  "  marched 
into  the  land  and  found  divers  corn-fields  and 
little  running  brooks,  —  a  place  (as  they  sup 
posed)  fit  for  situation;  at  least  it  was  the  best 
they  could  find." 


THE   MAYFLOWER 

DOWN  in  the  bleak  December  bay 
The  ghostly  vessel  stands  away; 
Her  spars  and  halyards  white  with  ice, 
Under  the  dark  December  skies. 
A  hundred  souls,  in  company. 
Have  left  the  vessel  pensively,  — 
Have  reached  the  frosty  desert  there, 
And  touched  it  with  the  knees  of  prayer. 

And  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 

Neither  the  desert  nor  the  sea 
Imposes  rites:  their  prayers  are  free; 
Danger  and  toil  the  wild  imposes, 
And  thorns  must  grow  before  the  roses. 
And  who  are  these  ?  —  and  what  distress 
The  savage-acred  wilderness 
On  mother,  maid,  and  child  may  bring, 


Beseems  them  for  a  fearful  thing; 

For  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 

But  Carver  leads  (in  heart  and  health 
A  hero  of  the  commonwealth) 
The  axes  that  the  camp  requires, 
To  build  the  lodge  and  heap  the  fires, 
And  Standish  from  his  warlike  store 
Arrays  his  men  along  the  shore, 
Distributes  weapons  resonant, 
And  dons  his  harness  militant; 

For  now  the  day  begins  to  dip, 
The  night  begins  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower; 

And  Rose,  his  wife,  unlocks  a  chest  — 
She  sees  a  Book,  in  vellum  drest, 
She  drops  a  tear  and  kisses  the  tome. 
Thinking  of  England  and  of  home: 
Might  they  — the  Pilgrims,  there  and  thea 
Ordained  to  do  the  work  of  men  — 
Have  seen,  in  visions  of  the  air, 
While  pillowed  on  the  breast  of  prayer 

(When  now  the  day  began  to  dip, 
The  night  began  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower), 

The  Canaan  of  their  wilderness 
A  boundless  empire  of  success; 
And  seen  the  years  of  future  nights 
Jewelled  with  myriad  household  lights; 
And  seen  the  honey  fill  the  hive; 
And  seen  a  thousand  ships  arrive; 
And  heard  the  wheels  of  travel  go; 
It  would  have  cheered  a  thought  of  woe, 

When  now  the  day  began  to  dip, 
The  night  began  to  lower 

Over  the  bay,  and  over  the  ship 
Mayflower. 

ERASTUS  WOLCOTT  ELLSWORTH. 


On  March  16  an  Indian  came  into  the  hamlet, 
and  in  broken  English  bade  the  strangers  "  Wel 
come."  He  said  his  name  was  Samoset,  that  he 
came  from  Monhegan,  distant  five  days'  journey 
toward  the  southeast,  where  he  had  learned 
something  of  the  language  from  the  crews  of 
fishing-boats,  and  that  he  was  an  envoy  from 
"  the  greatest  commander  in  the  country,"  a 
sachem  named  Massasoit.  Massasoit  himself 
appeared  a  few  days  later  (March  21),  and  a 


6o 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


treaty  offensive  and  defensive  was  entered  into, 
which  remained  in  force  for  fifty-four  years. 


THE   PEACE   MESSAGE 

[March  16,  1621] 

AT  the  door  of  his  hut  sat  Massasoit, 

And  his  face  was  lined  with  care, 
For  the  Yellow  Pest  had  stalked  from  the 
West 

And  swept  his  wigwams  bare; 
Mother  and  child  had  it  stricken  down, 

And  the  warrior  in  his  pride, 
Till  for  one  that  lived  when  the  plague  was 
past, 

A  full  half-score  had  died. 

Now  from  the  Eastern  Shore  there  came 

Word  of  a  white-skinned  race 
Who  had  risen  from  out  the  mighty  deep 

In  search  of  a  dwelling-place. 
Houses  they  fashioned  of  tree  and  stone, 

Turkey  and  deer  they  slew 
With  a  breath  of  flame  like  the  lightning- 
flash 

Of  the  great  God,  Manitu. 

Was  it  war  or  peace?    The  Chief  looked 

round 

On  the  wreck  of  his  mighty  band. 
His    heart  was  sad  as  he  rose    from    the 

ground 

And  held  on  high  his  hand. 
"We  must  treat  with  the  stranger,  my  chil 
dren,"  he  said. 

And  he  called  to  him  Samoset: 
"You  will  go  to  the  men  on  the  Eastern 

Shore 
With  wampum  and  calumet." 

Warm  was  the  welcome  he  received, 

For  the  Pilgrims'  hearts  did  thrill 
At   the   message   he  brought  from  Massa 
soit, 

With  its  earnest  of  good-will. 
They  bade  him    eat    and    they  bade  him 
drink, 

Gave  bracelet,  knife,  and  ring, 
And  sent  him  again  to  Monhegan 

To  lay  them  before  his  king. 

So  the  treaty  was  made,  and  the  treaty  was 

kept 
For  fifty  years  and  four; 


The  white  men  wrought,  and  waked,  and  slept 

Secure  on  the  Eastern  Shore; 
From  the  door  of  his  hut,  old  Massasoit 

Noted  their  swift  increase, 
And  blessed  the  day  he  had  sent  that  way 

His  messenger  of  peace. 

BURTON  EGBERT  STEVENSON. 

The  colonists  set  about  the  work  of  planting 
their  fields  as  soon  as  spring  opened.  The  har 
vest  proved  a  good  one ;  "  there  was  great  store 
of  wild  turkeys,  of  which  they  took  many,  besides 
venison,"  the  fowlers  having  been  sent  out  by 
the  governor,  "  that  so  they  might,  after  a  special 
manner,  rejoice  together  after  they  had  gathered 
the  fruit  of  their  labors."  This  festival  was  New 
England's  "  First  Thanksgiving  Day."  For  three 
days  a  great  feast  was  spread  not  only  for  the 
colonists,  but  for  Massasoit  and  some  ninety  of 
his  people,  who  had  contributed  five  deer  to  the 
larder. 

THE    FIRST    THANKSGIVING    DAY 

[November,  1621] 

"AND    now,"    said    the    Governor,    gazing 

abroad  on  the  piled-up  store 
Of  the  sheaves  that  dotted  the  clearings  and 

covered  the  meadows  o'er, 
"'T  is  meet  that  we  render  praises  because  of 

this  yield  of  grain; 
'T  is  meet  that  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  be 

thanked  for  His  sun  and  rain. 

"And  therefore,  I,  William  Bradford  (by  the 
grace  of  God  to-day, 

And  the  franchise  of  this  good  people),  Gov 
ernor  of  Plymouth,  say, 

Through  virtue  of  vested  power  —  ye  shall 
gather  with  one  accord, 

And  hold,  in  the  month  November,  thanks 
giving  unto  the  Lord. 

"He  hath  granted  us  peace  and  plenty,  and 

the  quiet  we've  sought  so  long; 
He  hath  thwarted  the  wily  savage,  and  kept 

him  from  wrack  and  wrong; 
And  unto   our   feast    the   Sachem   shall   be 

bidden,  that  he  may  know 
We  worship  his  own  Great  Spirit  who  maketh 

the  harvests  grow. 

"So  shoulder  your  matchlocks,  masters: 
there  is  hunting  of  all  degrees; 

And  fishermen,  take  your  tackle,  and  scour 
for  spoil  the  seas; 


THE  WAR-TOKEN 


61 


And  maidens  and  dames  of  Plymouth,  your 

delicate  crafts  employ 
To  honor  our  First  Thanksgiving,  and  make 

it  a  feast  of  joy ! 

"We  fail  of  the  fruits  and  dainties  —  we 

fail  of  the  old  home  cheer; 
Ah,  these  are  the  lightest  losses,  mayhap, 

that  befall  us  here; 
But  see,  in  our  open  clearings,  how  golden 

the  melons  lie; 
Enrich  them   with   sweets   and  spices,   and 

give  us  the  pumpkin-pie!" 

So,  bravely  the  preparations  went    on    for 

the  autumn  feast; 
The  deer  and  the  bear  were  slaughtered; 

wild  game  from  the  greatest  to  least 
Was   heaped  in  the  colony  cabins;   brown 

home-brew  served  for  wine, 
And  the  plum  and  the  grape  of  the  forest,  for 

orange  and  peach  and  pine. 

At  length  came  the  day  appointed :  the  snow 

had  begun  to  fall, 
But  the  clang  from  the  meeting-house  belfry 

rang  merrily  over  all, 
And  summoned  the  folk  of  Plymouth,  who 

hastened  with  glad  accord 
To  listen  to  Elder  Brewster  as  he  fervently 

thanked  the  Lord. 

In  his  seat  sate  Governor  Bradford;  men, 

matrons,  and  maidens  fair; 
Miles   Standish   and   all   his   soldiers,   with 

corselet  and  sword,  were  there; 
And  sobbing  and  tears   and  gladness   had 

each  in  its  turn  the  sway, 
For  the  grave  of  the  sweet  Rose  Standish 

o'ershadowed  Thanksgiving  Day. 

And  when  Massasoit,  the  Sachem,  sate  down 

with  his  hundred  braves, 
And  ate  of  the  varied  riches  of  gardens  and 

woods  and  waves, 
And    looked   on    the   granaried    harvest,  — 

with  a  blow  on  his  brawny  chest, 
He  muttered,  "The  good  Great  Spirit  loves 

His  white  children  best!" 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 

The  colonists,  through  the  friendship  of  Mas 
sasoit,  had  had  little  trouble  with  the  Indians, 
but  in  April,  1622,  a  messenger  from  the  Narra- 
gansetts  brought  to  Plymouth  a  sheaf  of  .arrows 
tied  round  with  a  rattlesnake  skin,  which  the 


Indians  there  interpreted  as  a  declaration  of 
war.  Governor  Bradford,  at  the  advice  of  the 
doughty  Standish,  stuffed  the  skin  with  powder 
and  ball,  and  sent  it  back  to  the  Narragansetts. 
Their  chief,  Canonicus,  was  so  alarmed  at  the 
look  of  this  missive  that  he  refused  to  receive  it, 
and  it  finally  found  its  way  back  to  Plymouth. 


THE   WAR-TOKEN 

From  "  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  " 
[April  1,  1622] 

MEANWHILE    the    choleric    Captain    strode 

wrathful  away  to  the  council, 
Found    it    already    assembled,    impatiently 

waiting  his  coming; 
Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave 

in  deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest 

to  heaven, 
Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth. 
God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the 

wheat  for  this  planting, 
Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed 

of  a  nation; 
So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the 

faith  of  the  people ! 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  atti 
tude  stern  and  defiant, 
Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and 

ferocious  in  aspect; 
While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying 

unopened  a  Bible, 
Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded, 

printed  in  Holland, 
And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a 

rattlesnake  glittered, 
Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with  arrows;  a  signal 

and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with 

arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered, 

and  heard  them  debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile 

message  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  sug 
gesting,  objecting; 
One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice 

of  the  Elder, 
Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least 

were  converted, 
Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but 

Christian  behavior! 


62 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Then  out  spake  Miles   Standish,   the  stal 
wart  Captain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice 

was  husky  with  anger, 
"  What !  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk 

and  the  water  of  roses  ? 
Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your 

howitzer  planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to 

shoot  red  devils  ? 
Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood 

by  a  savage 
Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from 

the  mouth  of  the  cannon ! " 
Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent 

Elder  of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irrev 
erent  language: 
"Not  so  thought  St.  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 

Apostles ; 
Not   from   the   cannon's    mouth    were   the 

tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with!" 
But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the 

Captain, 
Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus 

continued  discoursing: 
"Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right 

it  pertaineth. 
War  is  a  terrible  trade;  but  in  the  cause  that 

is  righteous, 
Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder;  and  thus  I 

answer  the  challenge!" 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  a 
sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 

Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with 
powder  and  bullets 

Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back 
to  the  savage, 

Saying,   in  thundering  tones:   "Here,  take 
it !  this  is  your  answer ! " 

Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the 
glistening  savage, 

Bearing  the  serpent's  skin,  and  seeming  him 
self  like  a  serpent, 

Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the 
depths  of  the  forest. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  period  of  prosperity,  which  had  been 
marked  by  the  first  Thanksgiving,  was  short-lived. 
Through  nearly  the  whole  of  the  next  two  years, 
the  colony  was  pinched  with  famine.  A  crisis 
was  reached  in  the  month  of  April,  1622,  when, 
so  tradition  says,  the  daily  ration  for  each  person 
was  reduced  to  five  kernels  of  corn. 


FIVE   KERNELS   OF    CORN 

[April,  1622] 


'T  WAS  the  year  of  the  famine  in  Plymouth 

of  old, 
The  ice  and  the  snow  from  the  thatched  roofs 

had  rolled; 
Through  the  warm  purple  skies  steered  the 

geese  o'er  the  seas, 
And  the  woodpeckers  tapped  in  the  clocks 

of  the  trees; 
And  the  boughs  on  the  slopes  to  the  south 

winds  lay  bare, 
And  dreaming  of  summer,  the  buds  swelled 

in  the  air. 
The  pale  Pilgrims  welcomed  each  reddening 

morn; 
There  were  left  but  for  rations  Five  Kernels 

of  Corn. 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn ! 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

But  to  Bradford  a  feast  were  Five  Kernels 

of  Corn! 


"Five  Kernels  of  Corn !  Five  Kernels  of  Corn ! 
Ye  people,  be  glad  for  Five  Kernels  of  Corn ! " 
So  Bradford  cried  out  on  bleak  Burial  Hill, 
And  the  thin  women  stood  in  their  doors, 

white  and  still. 
"Lo,  the  harbor  of  Plymouth  rolls  bright  in 

the  Spring, 
The  maples  grow  red,  and  the  wood  robins 

sing, 

The  west  wind  is  blowing,  and  fading  the  snow, 
And  the  pleasant  pines  sing,  and  the  arbu 
tuses  blow. 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

To  each  one  be  given  Five  Kernels  of  Corn ! " 


O  Bradford  of  Austerfield  haste  on  thy  way. 

The  west  winds  are  blowing  o'er  Province- 
town  Bay, 

The  white  avens  bloom,  but  the  pine  domes 
are  chill, 

And  new  graves  have  furrowed  Precisioners' 
Hill! 

"Give  thanks,  all  ye  people,  the  warm  skies 
have  come, 

The  hilltops  are  sunny,  and  green  grows  the 
holm, 


THE  EXPEDITION  TO  WESSAGUSSET 


And  the  trumpets  of  winds,  and  the  white 

March  is  gone. 

And  ye  still  have  left  you  Five  Kernels  of 
Corn. 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 
Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

Ye  have  for  Thanksgiving  Five  Kernels  of 
Corn! 

IV 

"The  raven's  gift  eat  and  be  humble  and 

pray, 
A  new  light  is  breaking,  and  Truth  leads 

your  way; 

One  taper  a  thousand  shall  kindle:  rejoice 
That  to  you  has  been  given  the  wilderness 

voice!" 

O  Bradford  of  Austerfield,  daring  the  wave, 
And  safe  through  the  sounding  blasts  leading 

the  brave, 
Of  deeds  such  as  thine  was  the  free  nation 

born, 
And  the  festal  world  sings  the  "Five  Kernels 

of  Corn." 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

Five  Kernels  of  Corn! 

The  nation  gives  thanks  for  Five  Kernels  of 

Corn! 

To  the  Thanksgiving  Feast  bring  Five  Ker 
nels  of  Corn ! 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


In  June,  1622,  a  colony  of  adventurers  from 
England  settled  at  Wessagusset,  now  Weymouth, 
and  when  their  supplies  ran  short,  the  following 
winter,  broke  open  and  robbed  some  of  the  Indian 
granaries.  The  Indians  were  naturally  enraged, 
and  formed  a  plot  for  the  extirpation  of  the 
whites.  Warned  by  Massasoit,  the  Plymouth 
settlers  determined  to  strike  the  first  blow,  and 
on  March  23,  1623,  Standish  and  eight  men  were 
dispatched  to  Wessagusset.  The  poem  tells  the 
story  of  the  events  which  followed. 

THE  EXPEDITION   TO   WESSA 
GUSSET 

From  "  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  " 
[March,  1623] 

JUST  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists 
uprose  from  the  meadows, 

There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slum 
bering  village  of  Plymouth; 

Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order 
imperative,  "Forward!" 


Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a  tramp  of  feet, 

and  then  silence. 
Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out 

of  the  village. 
Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of 

his  valorous  army, 
Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  men. 
Northward   marching   to   quell   the   sudden 

revolt  of  the  savage. 
Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty 

men  of  King  David; 
Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in 

God  and  the  Bible,  — 
Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites 

and  Philistines. 

Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  ban 
ners  of  morning; 
Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried 

billows,  advancing, 
Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order 

retreated. 

Meanwhile  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish  was 
marching  steadily  northward, 

Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and 
along  the  trend  of  the  sea-shore. 

After  a  three  days'  march  he  came  to  an 

Indian  encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  between 

the  sea  and  the  forest; 
Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  warriors, 

horrid  with  war-paint, 

Seated  about  a  fire,  and  smoking  and  talk 
ing  together; 
Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden 

approach  of  the  white  men, 
Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and 

sabre  and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two, 

from  among  them  advancing, 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him 

furs  as  a  present; 
Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their 

hearts  there  was  hatred. 
Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers, 

gigantic  in  stature, 
Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og, 

king  of  Bashan; 
One  was   Pecksuot  named,  and  the  other 

was  called  Wattawamat. 
Round   their   necks   were    suspended    then 

knives  in  scabbards  of  wampum, 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as 

sharp  as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were 

cunning  and  crafty. 
"Welcome,    English!"    they    said,  —  these 

words    they    had    learned    from    the 

traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter 

and  chaffer  for  peltries. 
Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to 

parley  with  Standish, 
Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,  Hobo- 

mok,  friend  of  the  white  man, 
Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly 

for  muskets  and  powder. 
Kept   by   the   white   man,   they   said,   con 
cealed,  with  the  plague,  in  his  cel 
lars, 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother 

the  red  man! 
But   when   Standish   refused,   and   said   he 

would  give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began 

to  boast  and  to  bluster. 
Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a  stride 

in  front  of  the  other, 
And,  with  a  lofty  demeanor,  thus  vauntingly 

spake  to  the  Captain: 
"Now  Wattawamat  can   see,   by  the  fiery 

eyes  of  the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart ;  but  the  heart  of  the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Is. not  afraid  of  the  sight.   He  was  not  born 

of  a  woman, 

But  on  a  mountain  at  night,  from  an  oak- 
tree  riven  by  lightning. 
Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  his 

weapons  about  him, 
Shouting,  'Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with 

the  brave  Wattawamat  ? ' " 
Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whetting 

the  blade  on  his  left  hand. 
Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face 

on  the  handle; 
Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of 

sinister  meaning: 
"I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a 

man  on  the  handle; 
By  and  by  they  shall  marry;  and  there  will 

be  plenty  of  children!" 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self-vaunting, 

insulting  Miles  Standish: 
While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife 
that  hung  at  his  bosom, 


Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plung 
ing  it  back,  as  he  muttered, 

"By  and  by  it  shall  see;  it  shall  eat;  ah,  ha! 
but  shall  speak  not! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men 
have  sent  to  destroy  us ! 

He  is  a  little  man ;  let  him  go  and  work  with 
the  women!" 

Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces 

and  figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to 

tree  in  the  forest, 
Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set 

on  their  bow-strings, 
Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer 

the  net  of  their  ambush. 
But   undaunted   he   stood,   and   dissembled 

and  treated  them  smoothly; 
So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in 

the  days  of  the  fathers. 
But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast, 

the  taunt,  and  the  insult, 
All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh 

and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 
Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in 

the  veins  of  his  temples. 
Headlong   he  leaped   on   the   boaster,   and, 

snatching   his    knife    from   its   scab 
bard, 

Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  back 
ward,  the  savage 
Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiendlike 

fierceness  upon  it. 
Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the  awful 

sound  of  the  war-whoop. 
And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling 

wind  of  December, 
Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a  flight  of 

feathery  arrows. 
Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the 

cloud  came  the  lightning, 
Out   of  the   lightning   thunder;   and   death 

unseen  ran  before  it. 
Frightened  the  savages   fled   for  shelter  in 

swamp  and  in  thicket, 
Hotly  pursued  and  beset;  but  their  sachem, 

the  brave  W7attawamat, 
Fled  not;  he  was  dead.    Unswerving  and 

swift  had  a  bullet 
Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with 

both    hands    clutching     the     green 
sward, 
Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe 

the  land  of  his  fathers. 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  ANNOYANCES 


There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the 
warriors  lay,  and  above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok, 
friend  of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stal 
wart  Captain  of  Plymouth :  — 

"Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  cour 
age,  his  strength,  and  his  stature,  — 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him 
a  little  man;  but  I  see  now 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speech 
less  before  you!" 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won 

by  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to 

the  village  of  Plymouth, 
And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave 

Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at 

once  was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the 

Lord,  and  took  courage. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


By  the  end  of  1624  Plymouth  was  in  a  thriving 
condition.  Its  inhabitants  numbered  nearly  two 
hundred,  and  it  boasted  thirty-i^vo  dwelling- 
houses.  Other  colonies  soon  sprang  up  about  the 
Bay — Piscataqua  (Portsmouth),  Naumkeag 
(Salem),  Nantasket  (Hull),  and  Winnisimmet 
(Chelsea).  The  trials  and  pleasures  of  life  in  New 
England  at  about  this  time  are  humorously  de 
scribed  in  what  are  perhaps  the  first  verses  written 
by  an  American  colonist. 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  ANNOYANCES 

[1630] 

NEW  England's  annoyances,  you  that  would 

know  them, 
Pray  ponder  these  verses  which  briefly  doth 

shew  them. 

The  Place  where  we  live  is  a  wilderness 
Wood, 

Where  Grass  is  much  wanting  that's  fruitful 
and  good: 

Our  Mountains  and  Hills  and  our  Vallies 
below 

Being  commonly  cover'd  with  Ice  and  with 
Snow ; 

And  when  the  North-west  Wind  with  vio 
lence  blows, 

Then  every  Man  pulls  his  Cap  over  his  Nose : 


But  if  any 's  so  hardy  and  will  it  withstand, 
He  forfeits  a  Finger,  a  Foot,  or  a  Hand. 

But  when  the  Spring  opens,  we  then  take 

the  Hoe, 
And  make  the  Ground  ready  to  plant  and  to 

sow; 
Our   Corn   being   planted   and   Seed   being 

sown, 

The  Worms  destroy  much  before  it  is  grown ; 
And  when  it  is  growing,  some  spoil  there  is 

made 
By  Birds  and  by  Squirrels  that  pluck  up  the 

Blade; 

And  when  it  is  come  to  full  Corn  in  the  Ear, 
It  is  often  destroy'd  by  Raccoon  and    by 

Deer. 

And  now  do  our  Garments  begin  to  grow 

thin, 
And  Wool  is  much  wanted  to  card  and  to 

spin; 

If  we  can  get  a  Garment  to  cover  without, 
Our    other    In-Garments    are    Clout    upon 

Clout: 
Our  Clothes  we  brought  with  us  are  apt  to 

be  torn, 
They  need  to  be  clouted  soon  after  they  're 

worn; 
But  clouting  our  Garments  they  hinder  us 

nothing : 
Clouts  double  are  wanner  than  single  whole 

Clothing. 

If  fresh  Meat  be  wanting,  to  fill  up  our  Dish, 

We  have  Carrots  and  Turnips  as  much,  as 
we  wish; 

And  is  there  a  mind  for  a  delicate  Dish, 

We  repair  to  the  Clam-banks,  and  there  we 
catch  Fish. 

For  Pottage  and  Puddings,  and  Custards  and 
Pies, 

Our  Pumpkins  and  Parsnips  are  common 
supplies ; 

We  have  Pumpkins  at  morning,  and  Pump 
kins  at  noon; 

If  it  was  not  for  Pumpkins  we  should  be 
undone. 

If  Barley  be  wanting  to  make  into  Malt, 
\Ve  must  be  contented,  and  think  it  no  fault; 
For  we  can  make  Liquor  to  sweeten  our  Lips 
Of   Pumpkins   and   Parsnips   and   Walnut- 
Tree  Chips. 


66 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Now  while  some  are  going  let  others   be 

coming, 
For  while  Liquor 's  boiling  it  must  have  a 

scumming ; 
But  I  will  not  blame  them,  for  Birds  of  a 

Feather, 

By  seeking  their  Fellows,  are  flocking  together. 
But  you  whom  the  Lord  intends  hither  to 

bring, 

Forsake  not  the  Honey  for  fear  of  the  Sting; 
But  bring  both  a  quiet  and  contented  Mind, 
And  all  needful  Blessings  you  surely  will 

find. 


The  Old  Colony's  palmy  days  were  of  short 
duration,  for  it  was  soon  overshadowed  by  a 
more  wealthy  and  vigorous  neighbor,  founded  by 
the  powerful  Puritan  party. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS 


WELL  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they 
Who,  with  sad  hearts,  of  friends  and  country 

took 

A  last  farewell,  their  loved  abodes  forsook, 
And  hallowed  ground  in  which  their  fathers 

lay; 
Then  to  the  new-found  World  explored  their 

way, 
That  so  a  Church,   unforced,   uncalled  to 

brook 
Ritual    restraints,    within    some    sheltering 

nook 

Her  Lord  might  worship  and  his  word  obey 
In  freedom.    Men  they  were  who  could  not 

bend; 

Blest  Pilgrims,  surely,  as  they  took  for  guide 
A  will  by  sovereign  Conscience  sanctified; 
Blest   while   their   Spirits   from   the   woods 

ascend 

Along  a  Galaxy  that  knows  no  end, 
But  in  His  glory  who  for  Sinners  died. 


From  Rite  and  Ordinance  abused  they  fled 
To  Wilds  where  both  were  utterly  unknown ; 
But  not  to  them  had  Providence  foreshown 
What  benefits  are  missed,  what  evils  bred, 
In  worship  neither  raised  nor  limited 
Save  by  Self-will .   Lo !  from  that  distant  shore, 
For  Rite  and  Ordinance,  Piety  is  led 
Back  to  the  Land  those  Pilgrims  left  of  yore, 


Led  by  her  own  free  choice.    So  Truth  and 
Love 

By  Conscience  governed  do  their  steps  re 
trace.  — 

Fathers!  your  Virtues,  such  the  power  of 
grace, 

Their  spirit,  in  your  Children,  thus  approve. 

Transcendent  over  time,  unbound  by  place, 

Concord  and  Charity  in  circles  move. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


When  Charles  I  came  to  the  throne,  in  1625, 
with  the  expressed  determination  to  harry  the 
Puritans  out  of  England,  the  latter  decided 
to  seek  an  asylum  in  the  New  World.  In  1628 
John  Endicott  and  a  few  others  secured  a  patent 
from  the  New  England  Council  for  a  trading-com 
pany,  the  grant  including  a  strip  of  land  across 
the  continent  from  a  line  three  miles  north  of 
the  Merrimac  to  another  three  miles  south  of  the 
Charles.  It  was  into  this  colony,  known  as  Massa 
chusetts,  that  the  older  colony  of  Plymouth  was 
finally  absorbed. 

THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS 

THE  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore: 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below; 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  stormss 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the 
deep 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  the 
gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone,  — 
As  an  angel's  wing  through  an  opening  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile,  —  sainted  name ! 

The  hill  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's 
flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that 
night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head,  — 

But  the  Pilgrim !  where  is  he  ? 


THE   THANKSGIVING  IN  BOSTON  HARBOR 


67 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest: 

When  summer 's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure 
drest, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled: 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  still  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  May 
flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 


King  Charles,  little  suspecting  that  he  was 
providing  an  asylum  for  the  Puritans,  confirmed 
the  patent  by  a  royal  charter  to  "  The  Governor 
and  Company  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  in  New 
England."  No  place  for  the  meetings  of  the  com 
pany  had  been  named  in  the  charter,  and  the 
audacious  plan  was  formed  to  remove  it,  patents, 
charter,  and  all,  to  New  England.  Secret  meetings 
were  held,  the  old  officers  were  finally  got  rid  of, 
and  John  Winthrop  was  elected  governor.  Win- 
throp  sailed  for  America  on  April  7,  1630,  and 
arrived  at  Salem  June  12.  It  was  the  beginning 
of  a  great  emigration,  for,  in  the  four  months  that 
followed,  seventeen  ships  arrived,  with  nearly  a 
thousand  passengers. 


THE    THANKSGIVING    IN    BOSTON 
HARBOR 

[June  12.  1630] 

"PRAISE  ye  the  Lord!"   The  psalm  to-day 

Still  rises  on  our  ears, 
Borne  from  the  hills  of  Boston  Bay 

Through  five  times  fifty  years, 
When  Winthrop's  fleet  from  Yarmouth  crept 

Out  to  the  open  main, 
And  through  the  widening  waters  swept, 
In  April  sun  and  rain. 

"  Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "  pray ; " 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships 
As  faded  Yarmouth  Bay. 

They  passed  the  Scilly  Isles  that  day, 
And  May-days  came,  and  June, 


And  thrice  upon  the  ocean  lay 

The  full  orb  of  the  moon. 
And  as  that  day,  on  Yarmouth  Bay, 

Ere  England  sunk  from  view, 
While  yet  the  rippling  Solent  lay 
In  April  skies  of  blue, 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

Each  morn  was  shouted,  "pray;" 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay; 

Blew  warm  the  breeze  o'er  Western  seas, 

Through  Maytime  morns,  and  June, 
Till  hailed  these  souls  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 

Low  'neath  the  summer  moon; 
And  as  Cape  Ann  arose  to  view, 

And  Norman's  Woe  they  passed, 
The  wood-doves  came  the  white  mists  through, 
And  circled  round  each  mast. 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

Then  called  the  leader,  "pray;" 
And  prayer  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
As  first  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

Above  the  sea  the  hill-tops  fair  — 

God's  towers  —  began  to  rise, 
And  odors  rare  breathe  through  the  air, 

Like  balms  of  Paradise. 
Through  burning  skies  the  ospreys  flew, 

And  near  the  pine-cooled  shores 
Danced  airy  boat  and  thin  canoe, 
To  flash  of  sunlit  oars. 

"Pray  to  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips," 

The  leader  shouted,  "pray!" 
Then  prayer  arose,  and  all  the  ships 
Sailed  into  Boston  Bay. 

The  white  wings  folded,  anchors  down, 

The  sea-worn  fleet  in  line. 
Fair  rose  the  hills  where  Boston  town 

Should  rise  from  clouds  of  pine; 
Fair  was  the  harbor,  summit-walled, 

And  placid  lay  the  sea. 
"Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  the  leader  called; 
"Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  spake  he. 
"Give  thanks  to  God  with  fervent  lips; 

Give  thanks  to  God  to-day," 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships, 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord!"  Primeval  woods 

First  heard  the  ancient  song, 
And  summer  hills  and  solitudes 

The  echoes  rolled  along. 


68 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  Red  Cross  flag  of  England  blew 

Above  the  fleet  that  day, 
While  Shawmut's  triple  peaks  in  view 
In  amber  hazes  lay. 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day," 
The  anthem  rose  from  all  the  ships 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

The  Arabella  leads  the  song  —     • 

The  Mayflower  sings  below, 
That  erst  the  Pilgrims  bore  along 

The  Plymouth  reefs  of  snow. 
Oh !  never  be  that  psalm  forgot 

That  rose  o'er  Boston  Bay, 
When  Winthrop  sang,  and  Endicott, 
And  Saltonstall,  that  day: 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day;" 
And  praise  arose  from  all  the  ships, 
Like  prayers  in  Yarmouth  Bay. 

That  psalm  our  fathers  sang  we  sing, 

That  psalm  of  peace  and  wars, 
While  o'er  our  heads  unfolds  its  wing 

The  flag  of  forty  stars. 
And  while  the  nation  finds  a  tongue 

For  nobler  gifts  to  pray, 
T  will  ever  sing  the  song  they  sung 
That  first  Thanksgiving  Day: 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  fervent  lips, 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  to-day," 
So  rose  the  song  from  all  the  ships, 
Safe  moored  in  Boston  Bay. 

Our  fathers'  prayers  have  changed  to  psalms, 

As  David's  treasures  old 
Turned,  on  the  Temple's  giant  arms, 

To  lily-work  of  gold. 
Ho!  vanished  ships  from  Yarmouth's  tide, 

Ho!  ships  of  Boston  Bay, 
Your  prayers  have  crossed  the  centuries  wide 
To  this  Thanksgiving  Day! 
We  pray  to  God  with  fervent  lips, 

We  praise  the  Lord  to-day, 
As  prayers  arose  from  Yarmouth  ships, 
But  psalms  from  Boston  Bay. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

But  the  condition  of  the  colonists  was  for  the 
most  part  pitiful,  and  food  was  so  scarce  that 
shell-fish  served  for  meat  and  acorns  for  bread. 
Winthrop  had  foreseen  this  and  had  engaged  Cap 
tain  William  Pierce,  of  the  ship  Lion,  to  go  in  all 
haste  to  the  nearest  port  in  Ireland  for  provisions. 
Food-stuffs  were  nearly  as  scarce  there  as  in 


America,  and  Pierce  was  forced  to  go  on  to  Lon 
don,  where  he  was  again  delayed.  A  fast  was  ap 
pointed  throughout  the  settlements  for  February 
22,  1631,  to  implore  divine  succor.  On  the  21st, 
as  Winthrop  "  was  distributing  the  last  handful 
of  meal  in  the  barrel  unto  a  poor  man  distressed 
by  the  wolf  at  the  door,  at  that  instant  they  spied 
a  ship  arrived  at  the  harbour's  mouth,  laden  with 
provisions  for  them  all."  The  ship  was  the  Lion, 
and  the  fast  day  was  changed  into  a  day  of  feast 
ing  and  thanksgiving. 

THE   FIRST   THANKSGIVING 

[February  22,  1631] 

IT  was  Captain  Pierce  of  the  Lion  who  strode 

the  streets  of  London, 
Who  stalked  the  streets  in  the  blear  of 
morn  and  growled  in  his  grisly  beard; 
By  Neptune  !  quoth  this  grim  sea-dog,  /  fear 

that  my  master  '»  undone  ! 
'T  is  a  bitter  thing  if  all  for  naught  through 
the  drench  of  the  deep  I've  steered! 

He  had  come  from  out  of  the  ultimate  West 
through   the   spinning   drift  and   the 
smother, 
Come  for  a  guerdon  of  golden  grain  for  a 

hungry  land  afar; 
And  he  thought  of  many  a  wasting  maid,  and 

of  many  a  sad-eyed  mother, 
And  how  their  gaze  would  turn  and  turn 
for  a  sail  at  the  harbor  bar. 

But  famine  lay  on  the  English  isle,  and  grain 

was  a  hoarded  treasure, 
So  ruddy  the  coin  must  gleam  to  loose  the 

lock  of  the  store-house  door; 
And  under  his  breath  the  Captain  groaned 

because  of  his  meagre  measure, 
And  the  grasping  souls  of  those  that  held 
the  keys  to  the  precious  store. 

But  he  flung  a  laugh  ,-ind  a  fleer  at  doubt,  and 

braving  the  roaring  city 
He  faced  them  out  —  those  moiling  men 
whose  greed  had  grown  to  a  curse  — 
Till  at  last  he  found  in  the  strenuous  press  a 

heart  that  was  moved  to  pity, 
And  he  gave  the  Governor's  bond  and  word 
for  what  he  lacked  in  his  purse. 

So  the  Lion  put  her  prow  to  the  West  in  the 

wild  and  windy  weather, 
Her  sails  all  set,  though  her  decks  were  wet 
with  the  driving  scud  and  the  foam; 


NEW   ENGLAND'S    GROWTH 


69 


Never  an  hour  would  the  Captain  hold  his 

staunch  little  craft  in  tether, 
For  the  haunting  thought  of  hungry  eyes 
was  the  lure  that  called  him  home. 

Sooth,  in  the  streets  of  Boston-town  was  the 

heavy  sound  of  sorrow, 
For  an  iron  frost  had  bound  the  wold,  and 

the  sky  hung  bleak  and  dread; 
Despair  sat  dark  on  the  face  of  him  who  dared 

to  think  of  the  morrow, 
When  not  a  crust  could  the  goodwife  give  if 
the  children  moaned  for  bread. 

But  hark,  from  the  wintry  waterside  a  loud 

and  lusty  cheering, 
That  sweeps  the  sullen  streets  of  the  town 

as  a  wave  the  level  strand! 
A  sail !  a  sail!  upswelled  the  cry,  speeding  the 

vessel  steering 

Out  of  the  vast  of  the  misty  sea  in  to  the 
waiting  land. 

Turn  the  dimming  page  of  the  past  that  the 

dust  of  the  years  is  dry  on. 
And  see  the  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Joy  as  the 

ship  draws  in  to  the  shore, 
And  see  the  genial  glow  on  the  face  of  Captain 

Pierce  of  the  Lion, 

As  the  Governor  grips  his  faithful  hand  and 
blesses  him  o'er  and  o'er! 

Oh,  the  rapture  of  that  release!    Feasting 

instead  of  fasting! 
Happiness  in  the  heart  of  the  home,  and 

hope  with  its  silver  ray ! 
Ob,  the  songs  of  prayer  and  praise  to  the 

Lord  God  everlasting 
That  mounted  morn  and  noon  and  eve  on 
that  first  Thanksgiving  Day ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


In  the  four  years  that  followed,  the  worst  hard 
ships  of  the  new  plantation  were  outlived,  and 
between  three  and  four  thousand  Englishmen 
were  distributed  among  the  twenty  hamlets  along 
and  near  the  seashore.  The  fight  for  a  foothold 
had  been  won. 


NEW   ENGLAND'S   GROWTH 

From  a  fragmentary  poem  on  "  New  England  " 

FAMINE  once  we  had. 
But  other  things  God  gave  us  in  full  store, 


As  fish  and  ground-nuts  to  supply  our  strait. 
That  we  might  learn  on  Providence  to  wait; 
And  know,  by  bread  man  lives  not  in  his  need. 
But  by  each  word  that  doth  from  God  proceed. 
But  a  while  after  plenty  did  come  in. 
From  His  hand  only  who  doth  pardon  sin, 
And  all  did  flourish  like  the  pleasant  green, 
Which  in  the  joyful  spring  is  to  be  seen. 

Almost  ten  years  we  lived  here  alone, 

In  other  places  there  were  few  or  none; 

For  Salem  was  the  next  of  any  fame, 

That  began  to  augment  New  England's  name ; 

But  after  multitudes  began  to  flow, 

More  than  well  knew  themselves  where  to 

bestow ; 

Boston  then  began  her  roots  to  spread, 
And  quickly  soon  she  grew  to  be  the  head, 
Not  only  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay, 
But  all  trade  and  commerce  fell  in  her  way. 
And  truly  it  was  admirable  to  know, 
How  greatly  all  things  here  began  to  grow. 
New  plantations  were  in  each  place  begun, 
And  with  inhabitants  were  filled  soon. 
All  sorts  of  grain  which  'our  own  land  doth 

yield, 

Was  hither  brought  and  sown  in  every  field: 
As  wheat  and  rye,  barley,  oats,  beans  and 

pease, 
Here  all  thrive,  and  they  profit  from  them 

raise. 

All  sorts  of  roots  and  herbs  in  gardens  grow, 
Parsnips,  carrots,  turnips,  or  what  you  '11  sow. 
Onions,  melons,  cucumbers,  radishes, 
Skirets,  beets,  coleworts,  and  fair  cabbages. 
Here  grow  fine  flowers  many,  and  'mongst 

those, 

The  fair  white  lily  and  sweet  fragrant  rose. 
Many  good  wholesome  berries  here  you  '11  find, 
Fit  for  man's  use,  almost  of  every  kind, 
Pears,  apples,  cherries,  plumbs,  quinces,  and 

peach. 

Are  now  no  dainties ;  you  may  have  of  each. 
Nuts  and  grapes  of  several  sorts  are  here. 
If  you  will  take  the  pains  them  to  seek  for. 
WILLIAM  BRADFORD. 


There  remained  but  one  danger,  the  Indians; 
and  most  feared  of  all  were  the  Pequots,  who 
dwelt  just,  west  of  what  is  now  Rhode  Island, 
and  in  1637  began  open  hostilities.  A  force  of 
about  a  hundred  men  marched  against  the  prin 
cipal  Pequot  stronghold,  a  palisaded  village  which 
stood  on  a  hilltop  near  the  Mystic.  The  attack 
was  made  on  the  night  of  May  25,  1637.  the  Indians 
were  taken  by  surprise,  their  thatched  houses 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


were  set  on  fire,  and  of  the  six  or  seven  hundred 
persons  in  the  village,  scarcely  one  escaped. 


THE  ASSAULT  ON  THE  FORTRESS 

From  "  The  Destruction  of  the  Pequods  " 
[May  25,  1637J 

THROUGH  verdant  banks  where  Thames's 

branches  glide, 

Long  held  the  Pequods  an  extensive  sway; 
Bold,   savage,   fierce,   of  arms   the  glorious 

pride, 

And  bidding  all  the  circling  realms  obey. 
Jealous,  they  saw  the  tribes,  beyond  the  sea, 
Plant  in  their  climes;  and  towns,  and  cities, 

rise; 

Ascending  castles  foreign  flags  display; 
Mysterious  art  new  scenes  of  life  devise; 
And  steeds  insult  the  plains,  and  cannon  rend 

the  skies. 

The  rising  clouds  the  savage  chief  descried, 
And,  round  the  forest,  bade  his  heroes  arm; 
To  arms  the  painted  warriors  proudly  hied, 
And  through  surrounding  nations  rung  the 

alarm. 
The  nations  heard;  but  smiled,  to  see  the 

storm. 
With  ruin  fraught,  o'er  Pequod  mountains 

driven 

And  felt  infernal  joy  the  bosom  warm. 
To  see  their  light  hang  o'er  the  skirts  of  even, 
And  other  suns  arise,  to  gild  a  kinder  heaven. 

Swift  to  the  Pequod  fortress  Mason  sped, 
Far    in    the    wildering    wood's    impervious 

gloom; 

A  lonely  castle,  brown  with  twilight  dread ; 
Where  oft  the  embowel  led  captive  met  his 

doom, 

And  frequent  heaved,  around  the  hollow  tomb, 
Scalps  hung  in  rows,  and  whitening  bones 

were  strew'd; 
Where,  round  the  broiling  babe,  fresh  from  the 

womb, 

With  howls  the  Powow  fill'd  the  dark  abode, 
And  screams  and  midnight  prayers  invoked 

the  evil  god. 

But  now  no  awful  rites,  nor  potent  spell. 
To  silence  charm'd  the  peals  of  coming  war; 
Or  told  the  dread  recesses  of  the  dell, 
Where  glowing  Mason  led  his  bands  from  far : 


No  spirit,  buoyant  on  his  airy  car, 
Controll'd  the  whirlwind  of  invading  fight: 
Deep  died  in  blood,  dun  evening's  falling  star 
Sent  sad  o'er  western  hills  its  parting  light. 
And  no  returning  morn  dispersed  the  long, 
dark  night. 

On  the  drear  walls  a  sudden  splendor  glow'd, 
There  Mason  shone,  and  there  his  veterans 

pour'd. 

Anew  the  hero  claim'd  the  fiends  of  blood. 
While  answering  storms  of  arrows  round  him 

shower'd, 
And  the  war-scream  the  ear  with  anguish 

gored. 

Alone,  he  burst  the  gate;  the  forest  round 
Reechoed  death ;  the  peal  of  onset  roar'd, 
In  rush'd  the  squadrons;  earth  in  blood  was 

drown'd ; 
And  gloomy  spirits  fled,  and  corses  hid  the 

ground. 

Not  long  in  dubious  fight  the  host  had  striven. 
When,  kindled  by  the  musket's  potent  flame. 
In  clouds,  and  fire,  the  castle  rose  to  heaven. 
And  gloom'd  the  world,  with  melancholy 

beam. 
Then  hoarser  groans,  with  deeper  anguish, 

came; 

And  fiercer  fight  the  keen  assault  repell'd: 
Nor  e'en  these  ills  the  savage  breast  could 

tame ; 
Like  hell's  deep  caves,  the  hideous  region 

yell'd, 
Till  death,  and  sweeping  fire,  laid  waste  the 

hostile  field. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


Sassacus,  the  Pequot  chief,  escaped  and  sought 
refuge  with  the  Mohawks,  but  was  slain  by  them. 

DEATH   SONG 

[1673] 

GREAT  Sassacus  fled  from  the  eastern  shores. 
Where  the  sun  first  shines,  and  the  grent  sea 

roars. 

For  the  white  men  came  from  the  world  afar, 
And  their  fury  burnt  like  the  bison  star. 

His  sannops  were  slain  by  their  thunder's 

power. 
And  his  children  fell  like  the  star-eyed  flower; 


PROLOGUE  TO   JOHN   ENDICOTT 


His  wigwams  were  burnt  by  the  white  man's 

flame, 
And  the  home  of  his  youth  has  a  stranger 

name  — 

His  ancestor  once  was  our  countryman's  foe, 
And  the  arrow  was  plac'd  in  the  new-strung 

bow, 
The  wild  deer   ranged  through  the  forest 

free, 
While  we  fought  with  his  tribe  by  the  distant 

sea. 

But  the  foe  never  came  to  the  Mohawk's 

tent. 

With  his  hair  untied,  and  his  bow  unbent. 
And  found  not  the  blood  of  the  wild  deer 

shed. 
And  the  calumet  lit  and  the  bear-skin  bed. 

But  sing  ye  the  Death  Song,  and  kindle  the 

pine. 

And  bid  its  broad  light  like  his  valor  to  shine: 
Then  raise  high  his  pile  by  our  warriors' 

heaps. 

And  tell  to  his  tribe  that  his  murderer  sleeps. 
ALONZO  LEWIS. 


OUR   COUNTRY 

ON  primal  rocks  she  wrote  her  name ; 

Her  towers  were  reared  on  holy  graves; 
The  golden  seed  that  bore  her  came 

Swift-winged  with  prayer  o'er  ocean  waves. 


The  Forest  bowed  his  solemn  crest, 
And  open  flung  his  sylvan  doors; 

Meek  Rivers  led  the  appointed  guest 
To  clasp  the  wide-embracing  shores; 

Till,  fold  by  fold,  the  broidered  land 
To  swell  her  virgin  vestments  grew, 

While  sages,  strong  in  heart  and  hand, 
Her  virtue's  fiery  girdle  drew. 

O  Exile  of  the  wrath  of  kings! 

O  Pilgrim  Ark  of  Liberty! 
The  refuge  of  divinest  things, 

Their  record  must  abide  in  thee! 

First  in  the  glories  of  thy  front 
Let  the  crown- jewel,  Truth,  be  found; 

Thy  right  hand  fling,  with  generous  wont, 
Love's  happy  chain  to  farthest  bound! 

Let  Justice,  with  the  faultless  scales, 
Hold  fast  the  worship  of  thy  sons; 

Thy  Commerce  spread  her  shining  sails 
Where  no  dark  tide  of  rapine  runs! 

So  link  thy  ways  to  those  of  God, 
So  follow  firm  the  heavenly  laws, 

That  stars  may  greet  thee,  warrior-browed, 
And  storm-sped  angels  hail  thy  cause! 

O  Lord,  the  measure  of  our  prayers, 
Hope  of  the  world  in  grief  and  wrong, 

Be  thine  the  tribute  of  the  years. 
The  gift  of  Faith,  the  crown  of  Song! 
JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


CHAPTER  VI 


RELIGIOUS   PERSECUTIONS   IN   NEW   ENGLAND 


The  Puritans,  who  had  come  to  New  England 
to  escape  a  religious  despotism,  lost  no  time  in 
establishing  one  of  their  own.  At  the  first  meeting 
of  the  General  Council,  in  the  autumn  of  1630,  it 
was  agreed  that  no  one  should  be  admitted  to 
membership  in  the  company  who  was  not  a  mem 
ber  of  some  church  approved  by  it ,  and  a  religious 
oligarchy  was  thus  established  which  kept  itself 
in  power  for  over  thirty  years. 

PROLOGUE 

From  "John  Endicott" 

TO-NIGHT  we  strive  to  read,  as  we  may  best, 
This  city,  like  an  ancient  palimpsest; 


And  bring  to  light,  upon  the  blotted  page, 
The  mournful  record  of  an  earlier  age. 
That,  pale  and  half  effaced,  lies  hidden  away 
Beneath  the  fresher  writing  of  to-day. 

Rise,  then,  O  buried  city  that  hast  been; 
Rise  up,  rebuilded  in  the  painted  scene, 
And  let  our  curious  eyes  behold  once  more 
The  pointed  gable  and  the  pent-house  door, 
The  meeting-house  with  leaden-latticed  panes, 
The  narrow  thoroughfares,  the  crooked  lanes ! 

Rise,  too,  ye  shapes  and  shadows  of  the  Past, 
Rise  from  your  long-forgotten  graves  at  last; 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Let  us  behold  your  faces,  let  us  hear 
The  words  ye  uttered  in  those  days  of  fear ! 
Revisit  your  familiar  haunts  again,  — 
The  scenes  of  triumph,  and  the  scenes  of  pain, 
And  leave  the  footprints  of  your  bleeding  feet 
Once  more  upon  the  pavement  of  the  street! 

Nor  let  the  Historian  blame  the  Poet  here, 
If  he  perchance  misdate  the  day  or  year, 
And  group  events  together,  by  his  art, 
That  in  the  Chronicles  lie  far  apart; 
For  as  the  double  stars,   though   sundered 

far, 

Seem  to  the  naked  eye  a  single  star. 
So  facts  of  history,  at  a  distance  seen, 
Into  one  common  point  of  light  convene. 

"Why  touch  upon  such  themes?"  perhaps 

some  friend 
May  ask,  incredulous ;  "  and  to  what  good 

end? 

Why  drag  again  into  the  light  of  day 
The  errors  of  an  age  long  passed  away?" 
I  answer :  "  For  the  lesson  that  they  teach : 
The  tolerance  of  opinion  and  of  speech. 
Hope,   Faith,   and  Charity  remain,  —  these 

three ; 
And  greatest  of  them  all  is  Charity." 

Let  us  remember,  if  these  words  be  true. 
That  unto  all  men  Charity  is  due; 
Give  what  we  ask;  and  pity,  while  we  blame, 
Lest  we  become  copartners  in  the  shame, 
Lest  we  condemn,  and  yet  ourselves  partake, 
And  persecute  the  dead  for  conscience'  sake. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


One  of  the  earliest  to  feel  the  displeasure  of 
the  ruling  powers  of  the  Colony  was  Roger  Wil 
liams,  who  came  to  Boston  in  1631.  He  made 
himself  obnoxious  to  the  government  by  denying 
the  right  of  the  magistrates  to  punish  Sabbath 
breaking;  and  continued  to  occasion  so  much 
excitement  that  it  was  decided  to  send  him  back 
to  England.  Williams  got  wind  of  this,  and  took 
to  the  woods  in  January,  1636. 


ROGER   WILLIAMS 

[January,  1636] 

WHY  do  I  sleep  amid  the  snows, 
Why  do  the  pine  boughs  cover  me, 

While  dark  the  wind  of  winter  blows 
Across  the  Narragansett's  sea  ? 


0  sense  of  right!   O  sense  of  right, 
Whate'er  my  lot  in  life  may  be, 

Thou  art  to  me  God's  inner  light, 
And  these  tired  feet  must  follow  thee. 

Yes,  still  my  feet  must  onward  go, 
With  nothing  for  my  hope  but  prayer, 

Amid  the  winds,  amid  the  snow, 
And  trust  the  ravens  of  the  air. 

But  though  alone,  and  grieved  at  heart, 
Bereft  of  human  brotherhood, 

1  trust  the  whole  and  not  the  part, 
And  know  that  Providence  is  good. 

Self-sacrifice  is  never  lost, 

But  bears  the  seed  of  its  reward; 

They  who  for  others  leave  the  most, 
For  others  gain  the  most  from  God. 

0  sense  of  right!   I  must  obey, 

And  hope  and  trust,  whate'er  betide; 

1  cannot  always  know  my  way. 

But  I  can  always  know  my  Guide. 

And  so  for  me  the  winter  blows 
Across  the  Narragansett's  sea. 

And  so  I  sleep  beneath  the  snows, 
And  so  the  pine  boughs  cover  me. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


Williams  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  Thirty  years 
later,  he  related  how  he  was  "  sorely  tossed  for 
fourteen  weeks  in  a  bitter  winter  season,  not 
knowing  what  bread  or  bed  did  mean." 


GOD    MAKES   A   PATH 

GOD  makes  a  path,  provides  a  guide, 

And  feeds  in  wilderness! 
His  glorious  name  while  breath  remains, 

O  that  I  may  confess. 

Lost  many  a  time,  I  have  had  no  guide, 

No  house,  but  hollow  tree! 
In  stormy  winter  night  no  fire, 

No  food,  no  company : 

In  him  I  found  a  house,  a  bed, 

A  table,  company : 
No  cup  so  bitter,  but's  made  sweet, 

When  God  shall  sweetning  be. 

ROGER  WILLIAMS. 


ANNE  HUTCHINSON'S   EXILE 


73 


Williams  went  to  Narragansett  Bay,  where  he 
bargained  with  Canonicus  for  the  land  he  wanted, 
and  laid  the  foundations  of  the  present  city  of 
Providence. 

CANONICUS  AND  ROGER  WILLIAMS 

[1636] 

CONTENT  within  his  wigwam  warm, 

Canonicus  sate  by  the  fire; 
Without,  the  voices  of  the  storm 

Shrieked  ever  high  and  higher. 

Eager  and  wild,  the  spiteful  wind 
Tore  at  the  thatch  with  fingers  strong ; 

The  Sachem  fed  the  fire  within 
And  hummed  a  hunting-song. 

Sudden  upon  the  crusted  snow 

He  caught  a  sound  not  of  the  storm  — 

A  sound  of  footsteps  dragging  slow 
Towards  his  shelter  warm. 

He  drew  aside  the  flap  of  skin ; 

A  stranger  at  the  threshold  stood ; 
Canonicus  bade  him  enter  in. 

And  gave  him  drink  and  food. 

His  hand  he  gave  in  friendship  true, 

Land  for  a  home  gave  he; 
And  he  learned  of  the  love  of  Christ  Jesu, 

Who  died  upon  the  tree. 

To  the  stranger  guest  sweet  life  he  gave; 

For  a  State  he  saved  its  Sire; 
Yea,  and  his  own  soul  did  he  save 

From  burning  in  hell-fire. 

Scarcely  were  the  Massachusetts  magistrates 
rid  of  Williams,  when  they  found  themselves  en 
gaged  in  a  much  more  threatening  controversy 
with  Mrs.  Anne  Hutchinson  and  her  adherents, 
who  believed  in  various  "dangerous  errors,"  and 
carried  their  contempt  for  the  constituted  ministry 
to  the  point  of  rising  and  marching  out  of  the  Bos 
ton  church  when  its  respected  pastor,  John  Wilson, 
arose  to  speak.  The  other  ministers  of  the  colony 
rallied  to  Wilson's  support,  the  General  Court 
summoned  Mrs.  Hutchinson  before  it  in  Novem 
ber,  1637,  and  pronounced  sentence  of  banish 
ment,  which  was  put  into  effect  March  28,  1638. 

ANNE   HUTCHINSON'S   EXILE 

[March  28.  1638] 

"HOME,  home  —  where's  my  baby's  home? 
Here  we  seek,  there  we  seek,  my  baby's 
home  to  find. 


Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come! 
We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come! 
Find  my  baby's  home!" 

The  baby  clings;  the  mother  sings;  the  pony 

stumbles  on; 
The  father  leads  the  beast  along  the  tangled, 

muddy  way; 
The  boys  and  girls  trail  on  behind;  the  sun 

will  soon  be  gone, 
And  starlight  bright  will  take  again  the 

place  of  sunny  day. 

"Home,  home  —  where's  my  baby's  home? 
Here  we  seek,  there  we  seek,  my   baby's 

home  to  find. 
Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come! 

We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come! 
Find  my  baby's  home!" 

The  sun  goes  down  behind  the  lake ;  the  night 

fogs  gather  chill, 
The  children's  clothes  are  torn;  and  the 

children's  feet  are  sore. 
"  Keep  on,  my  boys,  keep  on,  my  girls,  till 

all  have  passed  the  hill; 
Then  ho,  my  girls,  and  ho,  my  boys,  for 

fire  and  sleep  once  more!" 
And  all  the  time  she  sings  to  the  baby  on  her 

breast, 
"Home,  my  darling,  sleep,  my  darling,  find  a 

place  for  rest; 
Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my 

bird  a  nest. 

Come,  my  baby,  come! 
Find  my  baby's  home!" 

He  lifts  the  mother  from  the  beast ;  the  hem 
lock  boughs  they  spread. 
And  make  the  baby's  cradle  sweet  with 

fern-leaves  and  with  bays. 
The  baby  and  her  mother  are  resting  on  their 

bed; 
He  strikes  the  flint,  he  blows  the  spark, 

and  sets  the  twigs  ablaze. 
"Sleep,  my  child;  sleep,  my  child! 
Baby,  find  her  rest, 
Here  beneath  the  gracious  skies,  upon  her 

father's  breast; 

Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my 
bird  her  nest. 


74 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Come,  come,  with  her  mother,  come ! 
Home,  home,  find  my  baby's  home!" 

The  guardian  stars  above  the  trees  their  loving 

vigil  keep; 
The  cricket  sings  her  lullaby,  the  whippoor- 

will  his  cheer. 
The  father  knows  his  Father's  arms  are  round 

them  as  they  sleep; 
The  mother  knows  that  in  His  arms  her 

darling  need  not  fear. 
"Home,  home,  my  baby's  home  is  here; 
With  God  we  seek,  with  God  we  find  the 

place  for  baby's  rest. 
Hist,  my  child,  list,  my  child;  angels  guard 

us  here. 
The  God  of  heaven  is  here  to  make  and 

keep  my  birdie's  nest. 
Home,  home,  here's  my  baby's  home  !" 
EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


Among  the  converts  made  by  Mrs.  Hutchinson 
during  her  stay  in  Boston  was  John  Underbill, 
commander  of  the  colony's  troops.  He  became 
involved  in  the  controversy  that  followed,  and 
as  a  result  was  disarmed,  disfranchised,  and  finally 
banished.  In  September,  1638,  he  betook  him 
self  to  Cocheco  (Dover) ,  on  the  Piscataqua,  where 
some  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  adherents  had  started 
a  settlement,  and  where  he  afterwards  held  various 
offices. 

JOHN   UNDERBILL 

[September,  1638] 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth  stone, 
When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
From  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars. 
Left  three-hilled  Boston  and  wandered  down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With  Vane  the  younger,  in  council  sweet, 
He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet. 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report. 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  the  General  Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 

The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

The  world  might  bless  and  the  world  might 

ban. 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man, 
To  whom  the  freedom  of  earth  was  given, 
Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven? 


He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or   thought  how  he  rode  with   his  lances 

free 

By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder-Zee, 
Till  his  wood-path  grew  to  a  trodden  road, 
And  Hilton  Point  in  the  distance  showed. 

He  saw  the  church  with  the  block-house  nigh, 
The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 
And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and  crank, 
The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry  Bank; 
And  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  looked  abroad 
Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the  Lord. 

Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 
Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 
With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  in  sheath, 
And  his  silver  buckles  and  spurs  beneath, 
And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and  all, 
From  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Fall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders:  "Lo,  I  come 
As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 
Somewhat  the  Lord   hath  wrought  by  my 

hands 

In  the  Narragansett  and  Netherlands, 
And  if  here  ye  have  work  for  a  Christian  man, 
I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

"I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would  own 
The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 
The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 
On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp  aside, 
And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

"A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me  round ; 
I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released. 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 

"Now,  as  God  appointeth,  I  keep  my  way, 
I  shall  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
I  wear  the  robe  of  His  righteousness; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  no  more  avail 
Than  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail." 

"Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 
"Thou  man  of  God,  as  our  ruler  and  guide." 
And  Captain  Underhill  bowed  his  head, 
"The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done!"  he  said. 


JOHN  UNDERBILL 


75 


Arid  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
In  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man  should ; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was  good; 
He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of  bribes  he  shook  his 

hand; 

And  through  the  camps  of  the  heathen  ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book 

saith, 

And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of  triumph  the  tempter  calls, 
And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas!  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly 


The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 
Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail ; 
And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 
The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his  prayer, 
The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 
The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his  name 

With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame; 

And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 

As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and  grim, 

111  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 

And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or  sword. 

None  knew  how,   with   prayer  and   fasting 

still, 

He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at  length, 
And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 

Jeer  and  murmur  and  shaking  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said : 
"Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye  know 
How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was  freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

"I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and  shame, 

But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 

In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my  heart 

Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 

He  chargeth  His  angels  with  folly;  He  sees 

The  heavens  unclean.  Was  I  more  than  these  ? 


"  I  urge  no  plea.   At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 
Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners  still; 
And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 

No  voice  made  answer:  a  sob  so  low 

That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 

Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 

As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 

And  the  veil  of  its  oaken  leaves  shut  down 

On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal-clear  on  the  man  of  sin 
The  streams  flashed  up,  and  the  sky  shone  in ; 
On  his  cheek  of  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears  of  dew, 
And  angels  of  God,  in  the  pure,  sweet  guise 
Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  surprise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and  breeze 
Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys? 
What  was  it  the  mournful  wood-thrush  said  ? 
What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead  ? 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day  ? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 

Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity; 

And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He  measured  his  path  with  prayers  of  pain 

For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 

The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name; 

How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Netherlands, 

From  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 

A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  Word, 

And  smote  the  heathen  with  Gideon's  sword ! 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long  frontier. 
And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him  barred 
The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward. 
Frailest  and  bravest!  the  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underbill. 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


In  1656  a  new  danger  threatened,  for  in  July 
the  first  Quakers  landed  in  New  England.  The 
preachers  of  this  sect  were  generally  believed  to 
be  either  Franciscan  monks  in  disguise,  or  pub 
lishers  of  irreligious  fancies,  and  in  an  evil  houi 


76 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


the  authorities  resolved  to  keep  them  out  of 
Massachusetts.  When  the  General  Court  met  in 
October,  it  passed  the  law  of  which  Mr.  Long 
fellow  gives  an  accurate  re'sume'.  This  law  was 
"  forthwith  published,  in  several  places  of  Boston, 
by  beat  of  drum,"  October  21,  1656. 


THE   PROCLAMATION 

From  "  John  Endicott  " 
[October  21,  1656] 

COLE 
HEKE  comes  the  Marshal. 

MERRY  (within) 

Make  room  for  the  Marshal. 

KEMPTHORN 

How  pompous  and  imposing  he  appears! 
His  great  buff  doublet  bellying  like  a  main 
sail, 

And  all  his  streamers  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
What  holds  he  in  his  hand  ? 

COLE 

A  proclamation. 

Enter  the  MARSHAL,  with  a  proclamation  ;  and 
MERRY,  with  a  halberd.  They  are  preceded 
by  a  drummer,  and  followed  by  the  hangman, 
with  an  armful  of  books, .  and  a  crowd  of 
people,  among  whom  are  UPSALL  and  JOHN 
ENDICOTT.  A  pile  is  made  of  the  books. 


Silence,  the  drum !  Good  citizens,  attend 
To  the  new  laws  enacted  by  the  Court. 

MARSHAL  (reads) 

"Whereas  a  cursed  sect  of  Heretics 
Has  lately  risen,  commonly  called  Quakers, 
Who  take  upon  themselves  to  be  commis 
sioned 

Immediately  of  God,  and  furthermore 
Infallibly  assisted  by  the  Spirit 
To  write  and  utter  blasphemous  opinions, 
Despising  Government  and  the  order  of  God 
In  Church  and  Commonwealth,  and  speaking 

evil 

Of  Dignities,  reproaching  and  reviling 
The  Magistrates  and  Ministers,  and  seeking 
To  turn  the  people  from  their  faith,  and  thus 
Gain  proselytes  to  their  pernicious  ways;  — 
This  Court,  considering  the  premises, 


And  to  prevent  like  mischief  as  is  wrought 
By  their  means  in  our  land,  doth  hereby 

order, 

That  whatsoever  master  or  commander 
Of  any  ship,  bark,  pink,  or  catch  shall  bring 
To  any  roadstead,  harbor,  creek,  or  cove 
Within  this  Jurisdiction  any  Quakers, 
Or  other  blasphemous  Heretics,  shall  pay 
Unto  the  Treasurer  of  the  Commonwealth 
One  hundred  pounds,  and  for  default  thereof 
Be  put  in  prison,  and  continue  there 
Till  the  said  sum  be  satisfied  and  paid." 


Now,  Simon  Kempthorn,  what  say  you  to 
that? 

KEMPTHORN 

I  pray  you,  Cole,  lend  me  a  hundred  pounds! 

MARSHAL  (reads) 

"If  any  one  within  this  Jurisdiction 
Shall  henceforth  entertain,  or  shall  conceal 
Quakers,  or  other  blasphemous  Heretics, 
Knowing  them  so  to  be,  every  such  person 
Shall  forfeit  to  the  country  forty  shillings 
For  each   hour's  entertainment  or  conceal 
ment, 

And  shall  be  sent  to  prison,  as  aforesaid, 
Until  the  forfeiture  be  wholly  paid." 
Murmurs  in  the  crowd. 

KEMPTHORN 

Now,  Goodman  Cole,  I  think  your  turn  has 
come! 

COLE 

Knowing  them  so  to  be! 

KEMPTHORN 

At  forty  shillings 
The  hour,  your  fine  will  be  some  forty  pounds ! 

COLE 
Knowing  them  so  to  be !   That  is  the  law. 

MARSHAL  (reads) 

"  And  it  is  further  ordered  and  enacted, 
If  any  Quaker  or  Quakers  shall  presume 
To  come  henceforth  into  this  Jurisdiction, 
Every  male  Quaker  for  the  first  offence 
Shall  have  one  ear  cut  off;  and  shall  be  kept 
At  labor  in  the  Workhouse,  till  such  time 
As  he  be  sent  away  at  his  own  charge. 
And  for  the  repetition  of  the  offence 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK 


77 


Shall  have  his  other  ear  cut  off,  and  then 
Be  branded  in  the  palm  of  his  right  hand. 
And  every  woman  Quaker  shall  be  whipt 
Severely  in  three  towns;  and  every  Quaker, 
Or  he  or  she,  that  shall  for  a  third  time 
Herein  again  offend,  shall  have  their  tongues 
Bored  through  with  a  hot  iron,  and  shall  be 
Sentenced  to  Banishment  on  pain  of  Death." 

Loud  murmurs.    The  voice  of  CHRISTISON  in 
the  crowd 

0  patience  of  the  Lord !  How  long,  how  long, 
Ere  thou  avenge  the  blood  of  Thine  Elect  ? 

MERRY 

Silence,  there,  silence !  Do  not  break  the  peace ! 
MARSHAL  (reads') 

"  Every  inhabitant  of  this  Jurisdiction 
Who  shall  defend  the  horrible  opinions 
Of  Quakers,  by  denying  due  respect 
To  equals  and  superiors,  and  withdrawing 
From  Church  Assemblies,  and  thereby  ap 
proving 

The  abusive  and  destructive  practices 
Of  this  accursed  sect,  in  opposition 
To  all  the  orthodox  received  opinions 
Of  godly  men,  shall  be  forthwith  committed 
Unto  close  prison  for  one  month;  and  then 
Refusing  to  retract  and  to  reform 
The  opinions  as  aforesaid,  he  shall  be 
Sentenced  to  Banishment  on  pain  of  Death. 
By  the  Court.   Edward  Rawson,  Secretary." 
Now,  hangman,  do  your  duty.    Burn  those 

books. 

Loud  murmurs  in  the  crowd.  The  pile  of  books 
is  lighted. 

TJPSALL 

1  testify  against  these  cruel  laws! 
Forerunners  are  they  of  some  judgment  on  us ; 
And,  in  the  love  and  tenderness  I  bear 
Unto  this  town  and  people,  I  beseech  you, 
O  Magistrates,  take  heed,  lest  ye  be  found 
As  fighters  against  God! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  law  was  soon  to  be  enforced,  and  among 
the  earliest  to  endure  its  penalties  were  Christopher 
Holden  and  John  Copeland,  who  were  whipped 
and  imprisoned,  while  Lawrence  and  Cassandra 
Southwick,  of  Salem,  were  also  imprisoned  for 
having  harbored  them.  The  Southwicks  were  in 
advanced  years,  and  had  three  grown  children  — 
Provided,  Josiah,  and  Daniel.  The  whole  family 
had  united  with  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  the 


parents  were  banished  from  the  colony  upon  pain 
of  death.  While  they  and  one  son,  Josiah,  were  in 
prison,  Provided  and  Daniel  were  fined  ten  pounds 
for  not  attending  public  worship  at  Salem.  They 
refused  to  pay,  and  were  ordered  to  be  sold  into 
slavery  in  Virginia  or  Barbadoes,  but  no  master  of 
a  vessel  could  be  found  to  carry  out  the  sentence. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK 

[1658] 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing 

rise  to-day, 
From   the   scoffer   and   the   cruel   He   hath 

plucked  the  spoil  away; 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the 

faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His 

handmaid  free! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my 

prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell 

the  pale  gleam  of  stars; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through 

the  long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's 

early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour 

crept  by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank 

adown  the  sky; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that 

which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of 

the  sea; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on 
the  morrow 

The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock 
me  in  my  sorrow, 

Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bar 
gained  for  and  sold. 

Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a 
heifer  from  the  fold! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  — 
the  shrinking  and  the  shame; 

And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whis 
pers  to  me  came: 

"W7hy  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly,"  the  wicked 
murmur  said, 

"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth 
thy  maiden  bed? 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft 
and  sweet, 

Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the 
pleasant  street? 

Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  sum 
mer  Sabbath  through, 

Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's 
pew? 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra  ?  —  Be 
think  thee  with  what  mirth 

Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the 
warm,  bright  hearth; 

How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  fore 
heads  white  and  fair, 

On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden 
hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not 

for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by 

laughing  boys  are  broken; 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap 

are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful 

hunters  braid. 

"  O  weak,  deluded  maiden !  —  by  crazy  fan 
cies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to 
tread; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching 
pure  and  sound, 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired 
and  sackcloth  bound,  — 

"Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock 

at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread 

and  wine; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from 

the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying 

in  their  shame. 

"And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee!  —  a  sadly 

toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of 

bondage  to  the  grave! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in 

hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn 

of  all!" 


Oh,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble 

Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of 

unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove 

in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak!  that  Thou 

indeed  wert  there! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's 

cell, 
And   how   from   Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the 

prison  shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's 

robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to 

sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies !  —  for  the 

peace  and  love  I  felt. 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my 

spirit  melt; 
When   "Get   behind   me,   Satan!"   was  the 

language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his 

doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning;  again  the 
sunshine  fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate 
within  my  lonely  cell; 

The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  up 
ward  from  the  street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread 
of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door 

was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long 

street  I  passed; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but 

dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people 

gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame 
burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trem 
bling  limbs  grew  weak: 

"O  Lord!  support  thy  handmaid;  and  from 
her  soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  the 
weakness  and  the  doubt." 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK 


79 


Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a 

cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And   a  low  deep  voice   within   me  seemed 

whispering  words  like  these : 
"Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy 

heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power 

is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the 
sunlit  waters  broke 

On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and 
shingly  wall  of  rock; 

The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard 
clear  lines  on  high, 

Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  net 
work  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak- 
wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 

And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces 
bronzed  and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel 
clerk  at  hand, 

Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler 
of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's 

ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh 

and  scoff  and  jeer; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal 

of  silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning 

spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter 

of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler 

of  the  weak ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  —  go 

turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast   hunted,  thou 

wolf  amid  the  flock!" 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and 

with  a  deeper  red 
O'er    Rawson's   wine-empurpled   cheek   the 

flush  of  anger  spread; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest, 

"heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil 

owns  his  child!" 


But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows 
knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor 
have  made, 

Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priest 
hood  bring 

No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful 
offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff, 

turning,  said,  — 
"Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this 

Quaker  maid  ? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's 

shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than 

Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim   and   silent   stood   the  captains;   and 

when  again  he  cried, 
"Speak    out,    my    worthy    seamen!"  —  no 

voice,  no  sign  replied; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and 

kind  words  met  my  ear,  — 
"God    bless   thee,    and    preserve   thee,    my 

gentle  girl  and  dear!" 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  a 

pitying  friend  was  nigh,  — 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it 

in  his  eye; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice, 

so  kind  to  me, 
Growled   back  its  stormy  answer  like  the 

roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

"Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  pack  with 
coins  of  Spanish  gold, 

From  keel -piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  room- 
age  of  her  hold, 

By  the  living  God  who  made  me !  —  I  would 
sooner  in  your  bay 

Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this 
child  away ! " 

"Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on 

their  cruel  laws!" 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud 

the  people's  just  applause. 
"Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of 

old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again 

for  silver  sold?" 


8o 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott;  with  weapon 

half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter 

hate  and  scorn; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in 

silence  back. 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode 

murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitter 
ness  of  soul; 

Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and 
crushed  his  parchment  roll. 

"Good  friends,"  he  said,  "since  both  have 
fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 

Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not 
well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear, 
swept  round  the  silent  bay, 

As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he 
bade  me  go  my  way; 

For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  stream 
let  of  the  glen, 

And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the 
hearts  of  men. 

Oh,    at   that   hour   the   very   earth   seemed 

changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls 

of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream 

and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters 

of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life !  to  Him  all 

praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his 

handmaid  free; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the 

mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which  for 

the  poor  is  laid! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's 

twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  pour  forth  the 

grateful  psalm; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did 

the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued 

Peter  told. 


And   weep   and   howl,   ye   evil    priests   and 

mighty  men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  His 

hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging 

hour! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to 

raven  and  devour! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  the  poor  in 

heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes 

of  praise  be  clad. 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed 

the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,   is  mighty 

still  to  save! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


In  September,  1661,  Edward  Burrough,  a 
prominent  Quaker  of  England,  obtained  an  audi 
ence  of  King  Charles  II  and  laid  the  grievances 
of  the  New  England  Quakers  before  him.  That 
careless  King,  who  always  found  it  more  easy  to 
grant  a  request  than  to  refuse  it,  so  long  as  it  cost 
him  nothing,  directed  that  a  letter  be  written  to 
Endicott  and  the  governors  of  the  other  New 
England  colonies,  commanding  that  "  if  there 
were  any  of  those  people  called  Quakers  amongst 
them,  now  already  condemned  to  suffer  death,  or 
other  corporal  punishment,  or  that  were  im 
prisoned,  and  obnoxious  to  the  like  condemna 
tion,  they  were  to  forbear  to  proceed  any  further 
therein,"  and  to  send  such  persons  to  England  for 
trial.  This  letter  was  given  in  charge  to  Samuel 
Shattuck,  a  Quaker  of  Salem,  then  in  England 
under  sentence  of  banishment,  with  the  usual 
condition  of  being  hanged  should  he  return.  He 
reached  Boston  in  November,  1661,  and  presented 
himself  with  all  haste  at  the  governor's  door. 
The  ballad  very  accurately  describes  the  inter 
view  which  followed. 


THE   KING'S   MISSIVE 

[November,  1661] 

UNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare 

To  cove  and  meadow  and  Common  lot, 
In  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, 
Sat  the  worshipful  Governor  Endicott. 
A  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 
In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  fear 
Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 
Held  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

He  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross  from  out 
The  flag,  and  cloven  the  May-pole  down, 


THE   KING'S   MISSIVE 


81 


Harried  the  heathen  round  about, 
And  whipped  the  Quakers  from  town  to 

town. 

Earnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need 
To  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh  creed, 
He  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his  zeal 
The  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. 

His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eye  was  stern, 
With  a  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and  wrath ; 

"Woe's  me!"  he  murmured:  "at  every  turn 
The  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path! 

Some  we  have  scourged,  and  banished  some, 

Some  hanged,  more  doomed,  and  still  they 
come, 

Fast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, 

Sowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. 

"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?  Did  we  leave  behind 
The  graves  of  our  kin,  the  comfort  and  ease 
Of  our  English  hearths  and  homes,  to  find 

Troublers  of  Israel  such  as  these  ? 
Shall  I  spare?   Shall  I  pity  them?   God  for 
bid! 

I  will  do  as  the  prophet  to  Agag  did : 
They  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the  Word, 
I  will  hew  them  in  pieces  before  the  Lord!" 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the  clerk 

Entered,  and  whispered  under  breath, 
"There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's  work 

A  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — 
Shattuck,  of  Salem,  unhealed  of  the  whip, 
Brought  over  in  Master  Goldsmith's  ship 
At  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, 
With  freight  of  the  devil  and  all  his  sort!" 

Twice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor 

Striding  fiercely  from  wall  to  wall, 
"The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more," 

The  Governor  cried,  "  if  I  hang  not  all ! 
Bring  hither  the  Quaker."  Calm,  sedate. 
With  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with  fate, 
Into  that  presence  grim  and  dread 
Came  Samuel  Shattuck,  with  hat  on  head. 

"Off  with  the  knave's  hat!"  An  angry  hand 
Smote  down  the  offence;  but  the  wearer 

said, 

With  a  quiet  smile,  "By  the  king's  command 
I  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his  stead." 
In  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid 
With  the  royal  arms  on  its  seal  displayed, 
And  the  proud  man  spake  as  he  gazed  thereat, 
Uncovering,  "  Give  Mr.  Shattuck  his  hat." 


He  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low,  — 
"The    king    commandeth    your    friends* 

release ; 
Doubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although 

To  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's  increase. 
What  he  here  enjoineth,  John  Endicott, 
His  loyal  servant,  questioneth  not. 
You  are  free!  God  grant  the  spirit  you  own 
May  take  you  from  us  to  parts  unknown." 

So  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, 

And,  like  Daniel,  out  of  the  lion's  den 
Tender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, 

With  age-bowed  women  and  gray-locked 

men. 

And  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die 
Was  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  high, 
And  the  little  maid  from  New  Netherlands 
Kissed,  in  her  joy,  the  doomed  man's  handu 

And  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister 

To  the  souls  in  prison,  beside  him  went, 
An  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her 

The  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. 
For  she,  not  counting  her  own  life  dear, 
In  the  strength  of  a  love  that  cast  out  fear, 
Had  watched  and  served  where  her  brethren 

died, 
Like  those  who  waited  the  cross  beside. 

One  moment  they  paused  on  their  way  to 
look 

On  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common  side. 
And  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem  took 

His  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried : 
"  Rest,  souls  of  the  valiant !   Not  in  vain 
Have  ye  borne  the  Master's  cross  of  pain ; 
Ye   have   fought   the   fight,   ye   are   victors 

crowned, 
With  a  fourfold  chain  ye  have  Satan  bound ! " 

The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 

On  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms; 
On  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  windmill 

Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms; 
Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 
With  its   capes  and  islands,   the  turquoise 

bay; 

And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 
Blue  hills  lifted  their  faint  outlines. 

The  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, 
The  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, 

And  double  in  air  and  water  showed 
The  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck; 


82 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Through  frost  flower  clusters  of  pale  star- 
mist, 

And  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, 
And  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, 
The  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. 

But  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers  saw 

The  world  about  them;  they  only  thought 
With  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe 

On  the  great  deliverance  God  had  wrought. 
Through  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town 
Noisily  followed  them  up  and  down; 
Some  with  scoffing  and  brutal  jeer, 
Some  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. 

One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

Upsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lion  Inn : 

"Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

"I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 
When  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay 


Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 

And  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights  gainsay. 
The  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend 
And  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, 
And  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise 
Walls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise." 

So  passed  the  Quakers  through  Boston  town, 
Whose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see 

The  walls  of  their  sheep-fold  falling  down, 
And  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. 

But  the  years  went  on,  and  brought  no  wrong; 

With  milder  counsels  the  State  grew  strong, 

As  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light 

Kept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. 

The  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, 

To  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, 
And  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon-shoV. 
That  severed  the  chains  of  a  continent. 
With  its  gentler  mission  of  peace  and  good 
will 

The  thought  of  the  Quaker  is  living  still, 
And  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied 
Is  gospel  and  law  where  the  martyrs  died. 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  \\HITTIER, 


CHAPTER  VII 

KING   PHILIP'S   WAR   AND   THE   WITCHCRAFT  DELUSION 


Metacomet,  or  Philip,  had  succeeded  his  father, 
Massasoit,  as  chief  of  the  Wampanoags,  and  en 
deavored  to  maintain  friendly  relations  with  the 
English,  but  in  June,  1675,  some  of  his  young 
men  attacked  the  village  of  Swansea,  and  started 
the  desperate  struggle  known  as  King  Philip's 
War.  For  months  the  Indians  ravaged  the  fron 
tier,  and  on  September  18  all  but  annihilated  a 
picked  force  of  eighty  men,  the  "  Flower  of  Essex," 
Under  Captain  Thomas  Lathrop,  which  had  been 
sent  to  Deerfield  to  save  a  quantity  of  grain  which 
had  been  abandoned  there.  Only  nine  of  the  eighty 
survived. 


THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF 
THE  BLOODY  BROOK 

[September  18,  1675] 

COMB  listen  to  the  Story  of  brave  Lathrop 

and  his  Men,  — 

How  they  fought,  how  they  died, 
When  they  marched  against  the  Red  Skins 

in  the  Autumn  Days,  and  then 


How  they  fell,  in  their  pride, 
By  Pocumtuck  Side. 

''Who  will  go  to  Deerfield  Meadows  and 

bring  the  ripened  Grain?" 
Said  old  Mosely  to  his  men  in  Array. 
"Take   the   Wagons   and   the   Horses,   and 

bring  it  back  again; 
But  be  sure  that  no  Man  stray 
All  the  Day,  on  the  Way." 

Then    the    Flower   of   Essex   started,    with 

Lathrop  at  their  head, 
Wise  and  brave,  bold  and  true. 
He  had  fought  the  Pequots  long  ago,  and 

now  to  Mosely  said, 
"Be  there  Many,  be  there  Few, 
I  will  bring  the  Grain  to  you." 

They  gathered  all  the  Harvest,  and  marched 

back  on  their  Way 
Through  the  Woods  which  blazed  like  Fire. 


THE   GREAT   SWAMP  FIGHT 


No  Soldier  left  the  Line  of  march  to  wander 

or  to  stray, 
Till    the    Wagons   were    stalled    in    the 

Mire, 
rAnd  the  Beasts  began  to  tire. 

The  Wagons  have  all  forded  the  Brook  as  it 

flows, 

And  then  the  Rear-Guard  stays 
To  pick  the  Purple  Grapes  that  are  hanging 

from  the  Boughs, 
When,  crack !  —  to  their  Amaze, 
A  hundred  Fire-locks  blaze! 

Brave  Lathrop,  he  lay  dying;  but  as  he  fell  he 

cried, 

"Each  Man  to  his  Tree,"  said  he, 
"Let  no  one  yield  an  Inch;"   and  so  the 

Soldier  died ; 

And  not  a  Man  of  all  can  see 
Where  the  Foe  can  be. 

And  Philip  and  his  Devils  pour  in  their  Shot 

so  fast, 

From  behind  and  before, 
That  Man   after  Man   is   shot  down   and 

breathes  his  last. 
Every  Man  lies  dead  in  his  Gore 
To  fight  no  more,  —  no  more ! 

Oh,  weep,  ye  Maids  of  Essex,  for  the  Lads 

who  have  died,  — 
The  Flower  of  Essex  they! 
The  Bloody  Brook  still  ripples  by  the  black 

Mountain-side, 
But  never  shall  they  come  again  to  see  the 

ocean-tide, 
And  never  shall  the  Bridegroom  return  to  his 

Bride, 

From  that  dark  and  cruel  Day,  —  cruel 
Day! 

EDWAHD  EVERETT  HALE. 


At  the  approach  of  winter,  the  Indians  with 
drew  to  the  Narragansett  country,  and  the  col 
onists  decided  to  strike  a  decisive  blow.  An  army 
of  a  thousand  men  was  raised  and  on  the  morning 
of  Sunday,  December  19,  approached  the  Narra 
gansett  stronghold,  a  well-fortified  position  on 
an  island  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp.  A  murderous 
fire  greeted  the  assailants,  but  they  forced  an 
entrance  into  the  fort,  set  fire  to  the  wigwams, 
and  after  a  terrific  struggle,  in  which  they  lost 
nearly  three  hundred  killed  and  wounded,  drove 
the  Indians  out  and  destroyed  their  store  of 
winter  provisions. 


THE  GREAT  SWAMP  FIGHT 

[December  19,  1675] 


OH,  rouse  you,  rouse  you,  men  at  arms, 

And  hear  the  tale  I  tell, 
From  Pettaquamscut  town  I  come, 

Now  hear  what  there  befell. 

The  houses  stand  upon  the  hill, 

Not  large,  each  house  is  full, 
But  largest  of  them  all  there  stood 

The  house  of  Justice  Bull 

T  was  there  the  court  sat  every  year, 

The  governor  came  in  state, 
From  there  the  couriers  through  the  town 

Served  summons  soon  and  late. 

And  there,  't  is  but  three  years  agone, 
George  Fox  preached,  you  remember; 

That  was  in  May  when  he  preached  peace, 
And  now  it  is  December. 

Peace,  peace,  he  cried,  but  righteous  God, 

How  can  there  be  true  peace, 
When  war  and  tumult  stalk  at  night, 

And  deeds  of  blood  increase? 

Revenge,  revenge,  good  captains  bold, 

Revenge,  my  people  cry; 
Where  stood  the  house  of  Justice  Bull 

But  piled-up  ashes  lie. 

How  fared  it  then,  who  may  dare  tell  ? 

The  shutters  barred  the  light, 
As  one  by  one  the  windows  closed, 

And  all  was  black  as  night. 

Strong  was   the   house,   and   strong   brave 
men 

All  armed  lay  down  to  sleep, 
And  women  fair,  and  children,  too, 

They  were  to  guard  and  keep. 

And  then  a  horror  in  the  night, 
And  shouts,  and  fire,  and  knives, 

And  demons  yelling  in  delight, 
As  men  fought  for  their  lives. 

And  where  there  stood  that  goodly  house 

And  lived  those  goodly  men, 
Full  seven  goodly  souls  are  gone. 

Revenge,  we  cry  again! 


84 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Up,  up,  ye  men  of  English  blood ! 

The  gallant  governor  cried, 
And  we  shall  dare  to  find  their  lair, 

Where'er  it  be  they  hide. 

For  never  men  of  English  blood 

Could  brook  so  foul  a  deed, 
For  all  these  sins  the  fierce  redskins 

Shall  reap  their  lawful  meed. 

Up  rose  the  little  army  then, 

All  armed  as  best  they  could, 
With  pike  and  sword  and  axes  broad, 

Flint-locks  and  staves  of  wood. 

And  motley  was  the  company, 

Recruits  from  wood  and  field, 
But  strong  ycung  men  were  with  them  then, 

Who'd  sooner  die  than  yield. 

Connecticut  had  sent  her  men 

With  Major  Robert  Treat; 
Each  colony  in  its  degree 

Sent  in  its  quota  meet. 

And  Massachusetts  led  the  way, 

And  Plymouth  had  next  post, 
WTinsIow  commands  the  gathered  bands, 

A  thousand  men  they  boast. 

The  winter  sun  hung  in  the  sky 
And  frost  bound  all  things  fast; 

As  they  set  forth,  from  out  the  north, 
There  blew  a  bitter  blast. 

The  meadow  grass  was  stiff  with  rime, 

The  frozen  brook  lay  dead; 
Like  stone  did  sound  the  frozen  ground 

Beneath  the  martial  tread. 

All  day  they  marched  in  bitter  cold, 

And  when,  as  fell  the  night, 
They  reached  the  hill  and  gazed  their  fill 

Upon  the  piteous  sight, 

No  need  to  urge  the  rapid  chase. 

The  cinders  did  that  well, 
And  in  the  air  a  woman's  hair 

Told  more  than  words  could  tell. 

In  stern  resolve  they  lay  them  down, 

For  rest  they  needed  sore, 
But  long  ere  dawn  the  swords  were  drawn 

And  open  stood  the  door. 


Out  to  the  gloom  of  morning  passed 

Full  silently  those  men, 
And  what  'twixt  light  and  fall  of  night 

Should  come,  no  soul  might  ken. 


They  turned  their  faces  toward  the  west, 

The  morning  air  was  cold, 
And  softly  stepped,  while  still  men  slept, 

With  courage  high  and  bold. 

An  Indian  they  met  ere  long, 
'T  was  Peter,  whom  they  knew ; 

They  asked  their  way,  naught  would  he  say, 
To  his  own  comrades  true. 

In  anger  cried  the  governor: 

Then  let  the  man  be  hung. 
For  he  can  tell,  he  knows  full  well, 

So  let  him  find  his  tongue. 

To  save  his  life  that  wretched  man 

Agreed  to  be  their  guide, 
As  they  marched  on,  the  Indian 

Marched  onward  by  their  side. 

And  soon  they  reached  a  dreadful  swamp, 

With  cedar  trees  o'ergrown, 
And  thick  and  dark  with  dead  trees  stark 

And  great  trunks  lying  prone. 

'T  was  frozen  hard,  and  Indians  there! 

They  fired  as  they  ran, 
And  with  a  bound  that  spurned  the  ground* 

The  fierce  assault  began. 

And  then  a  wonder  in  the  wood,  — 

A  little  rising  ground, 
With  palisade  for  shelter  made 

Of  timber  planted  round. 

And  but  one  place  of  entrance  there 

Across  a  watery  way, 
A  tall  felled  tree  gave  access  free, 

From  shore  to  shore  it  lay. 

Full  many  a  gallant  man  that  day 

His  life  left  at  that  tree, 
The  bravest  men  pressed  forward  then, 

And  there  fell  captains  three. 

A  dreadful  day,  and  of  our  men 
Short  work  would  have  been  made, 

But  that  by  grace  they  found  a  place 
Weak  in  the  palisade. 


THE   SUDEURY  FIGHT 


Then  they  poured  in,  within  the  fort 
Soon  filled  with  Indians  dead, 

And  many  a  one  great  deeds  had  done 
Within  that  place  of  dread. 

Then  with  a  torch  the  whole  was  fired, 
The  wigwams  caught  the  blaze, 

The  fire  roared  and  spread  abroad 
And  fed  on  tubs  of  maize. 

The  night  came  on,  the  governor  called, 
The  soldiers  gathered  round; 

The  fort  was  theirs,  and  dying  prayers 
Were  rising  from  the  ground. 

With  care  they  gathered  up  their  dead, 
The  few  who  had  been  spared, 

All  through  the  cold,  in  pain  untold, 
To  Warwick  they  repaired. 

So  was  the  Indians'  power  gone, 

Avenged  were  Englishmen, 
For  from  the  night  of  that  Swamp  fight 

They  never  rose  again. 

In  Narragansett  there  was  peace, 
The  soldiers  went  their  way, 

All  that  remains  are  some  few  grains 
Of  corn  parched  on  that  day. 

Gone  is  the  wrong,  the  toil,  the  pain, 
The  Indians,  they  are  gone. 

Please  God  we  use,  and  not  abuse 
The  land  so  hardly  won! 

CAROLINE  HAZARD. 


This  assault  by  the  colonists  drove  the  Narra- 
gansetts,  who  had  hitherto  taken  no  active  part 
in  the  war,  into  alliance  with  Philip,  and  two 
months  later,  on  February  21,  1676,  Medfield, 
less  than  twenty  miles  from  Boston,  was  attacked 
and  partially  burned.  Groton  soon  suffered  a 
similar  fate,  and  the  leaders  of  the  savages  boasted 
that  they  would  march  on  Cambridge,  Concord, 
Roxbury,  and  Boston  itself.  It  was  at  this  juncture 
that  the  "Amazonian  Dames"  mentioned  in  the 
poem  became  so  frightened  at  the  prospect  that 
they  resolved  to  fortify  Boston  neck. 


DUX   FOEMINA  FACTI 
[March,  1676] 


A  GRAND  attempt  some  Amazonian  Dames 
Contrive  whereby  to  glorify  their  names, 


A  ruff  for  Boston  Neck  of  mud  and  turfe, 
Reaching  from  side  to  side,  from  surf  to  surf, 
Their  nimble  hands  spin  up  like  Christmas 

pyes. 

Their  pastry  by  degrees  on  high  doth  rise. 
The  wheel  at  home  counts  it  an  holiday, 
Since  while  the  mistress  worketh  it  may  play. 
A  tribe  of  female  hands,  but  manly  hearts, 
Forsake  at  home  their  pasty  crust  and  tarts, 
To  knead  the  dirt,  the  samplers  down  they 

hurl, 

Their  undulating  silks  they  closely  furl. 
The  pick-axe  one  as  a  cornmandress  holds, 
While  t'other  at  her  awk'ness  gently  scolds. 
One  puffs  and  sweats,  the  other  mutters  why 
Cant  you  promove  your  work  so  fast  as  I  ? 
Some  dig,  some  delve,  and  others'  hands  do 

feel 

The  little  waggon's  weight  with  single  wheel. 
And  least  some  fainting-fits  the  weak  surprize, 
They  want  no  sack  nor  cakes,  they  are  more 

wise. 
These  brave  essays  draw  forth  male,  stronger 

hands. 

More  like  to  dawbers  than  to  marshal  bands; 
These  do  the  work,  the  sturdy  bulwarks  raise, 
But  the  beginners  well  deserve  the  praise. 
BENJAMIN  TOMPSON. 

On  April  21  an  attack  was  made  on  Sudbury; 
a  portion  of  the  town  was  burned,  and  a  relief 
party  of  over  fifty  which  hurried  up  was  lured 
into  an  ambush  and  all  but  annihilated.  The 
Indians  in  this  battle  were  bolder  than  they  had 
ever  been  before,  and  their  strategy  was  unusually 
effective. 

THE  SUDBURY  FIGHT 

[April  21,  1676] 

YE  sons  of  Massachusetts,  all  who  love  that 

honored  name, 
Ye  children  of  New  England,  holding  dear 

your  fathers'  fame, 
Hear  tell  of  Sudbury's  battle  through  a  day 

of  death  and  flame! 

The  painted  Wampanoags,  Philip's  hateful 

warriors,  creep 
Upon  the  town  at  springtide  while  the  skies 

deny  us  rain; 
We  see  their  shadows  lurking  in  the  forest's 

whispering  deep, 

And  speed  the  sorry  tidings  past  dry  field 
and  rustling  lane : 


86 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Came  hastily  or  never  when  the  wild  beast 

lusts  for  gore, 
And  send  your  best  and  bravest  if  you  wish  to 

see  us  more  I 

The  Commonwealth  is  quiet  now,  and  peace 

her  measure  fills, 
Content  in  homes  and  farmsteads,  busy  marts 

and  buzzing  mills 
From  the  Atlantic's  roaring  to  the  tranquil 

Berkshire  hills. 

But  through  that  day  our  fathers,  speaking 

low  their  breathless  words, 
Their  wives  and  babes  in  safety,  toil  to  save 

their  little  all; 
They  fetch  their  slender  food-stores,  drive 

indoors  their  scanty  herds, 
They  clean  the  bell-mouthed  musket,  melt 

the  lead  and  mould  the  ball; 
Please  God  they'll  keep  their  battle  till  their 

countrymen  shall  haste 
With  succor  from  the  eastward,  iron-hearted, 

flinty-faced. 

A  hundred  dragging  twelvemonths  ere  the 

welcome  joy-bells  ring 
The  dawn  of  Independence  did  King  Philip's 

devils  spring 
Through  April  on  the  little  spot,  like  wolves 

a-ravening. 

The  morning  lifts  in  fury  as  they  come  with 

torch  in  hand, 
And  howl  about  the  houses  in  the  shrunken 

frontier  town; 
Our  garrisons  hold  steady  while  the  flames 

by  breezes  fanned 
Disclose  the  painted  demons,   fierce  and 

cunning,  lithe  and  brown; 
At  every  loophole  firing,  women  close  at  hand 

to  load, 
The  children  bringing  bullets,  thus  the  Sud- 

bury  men  abode. 

By  night,  through  generations,  have  the  eager 
children  coir.1* 

Beside  their  grandsire's  settle,  listening  to  the 
droning  hum 

Of  this  old  tale,  with  backward  glances,  open- 
mouthed  and  dumb. 

The  burning  hours  stretch  slowly  —  then  a 

welcome  sight  appears! 
Along  the  tawny  upland  where  stout  Haynes 
keeps  faithful  guard 


From  Watertown  speeds  Mason,  young  in 

everything  but  years; 
Our  men  rush  down  to  meet  him;    then, 

together,  swift  and  hard, 
They   force   the   Indians   backward   to   the 

Musketaquid's  side, 
And  slaying,  ever  slaying,  drive  them  o'er  the 

reddened  tide. 

There  stand  stout  Haynes  and  Mason  by  the 
bridge  upon  the  flood; 

In  vain  the  braves  attack  them,  thick  as  sap 
lings  in  the  wood: 

Praise  God  for  men  so  valiant,  who  have  such 
a  foe  withstood! 

But  Green  Hill  looks  with  anguish  down  upon 

the  painted  horde 

Their  stealthy  ambush  keeping  as  the  Con 
cord  men  draw  near, 

To  dart  with  hideous  noises  as  they  reach  the 

lower  ford, 

A  thousand  'gainst  a  dozen ;  but  their  every 
life  costs  dear 

As,  sinking  'neath  such  numbers,  one  by  one 
our  neighbors  fail: 

One  sole  survivor  in  his  blood  brings  on  the 
dreadful  tale. 

Through  sun  and  evening  shadow,  through 

the  night  till  weary  morn, 
Speeds  Wadsworth  with   his  soldiers,  forth 

from  Boston,  spent  and  worn, 
And   Brocklebank   at  Marlboro'   joins  that 

little  hope  forlorn. 

They  hear  the  muskets  snap  afar,  they  hear 

the  savage  whoop  — 
All  weariness  forgotten,  on  they  hasten  in 

relief ; 
They  see  the  braves  before  them  —  with  a 

cheer  the  little  group 
Bends  down  and  charges  forward;    from 

above  the  cunning  Chief, 
His  wild-cat  eyes  dilating,   sees  his  bushes 

bloom  with  fire. 
The   tree-trunks  at  his  bidding  blaze  with 

fiendish  lust  and  ire. 

A  thousand  warriors  lurk  there,  and  a  thou 
sand  warriors  shout, 

Exulting,  aiming,  flaming,  happy  in  our 
coming  rout; 

But  Wadsworth  never  pauses,  every  musket 
ringing  out. 


THE   SUDBURY   FIGHT 


He  gains  the  lifting  hillside,  and  his  sixscore 

win  their  way 

Defiant  through  the  coppice  till  upon  the 
summit  placed; 

With  every  bullet  counting,  there  they  load 

and  aim  and  slay, 

Against  all  co.nL'rs  warring,  iron-hearted, 
flinty-faced ; 

Hold  Philip  as  for  scorning,  drive  him  down 
the  bloodstained  slope, 

And  stand  there,  firm  and  dauntless,  stead 
fast  in  their  faith  and  hope. 

With  Mason  at  the  river,  Wadsworth  staunch 

upon  the  hill, 
The  certain  reinforcements,  and  black  night 

the  foe  to  chill, 
An  hour  or   less  and  hideous  Death   might 

have  been  baffled  still. 

But  in  that  droughty  woodland  Philip  fires 

the  leaves  and  grass: 

The  flames  dance  up  the  hillside,  in  their 
rear  less  savage  foes. 

No  courage  can  avail  us,  down  the  slope  the 

English  pass  — 

A  day  in  flame  beginning  lights  with  hell 
its  awful  close, 

As  swifter,  louder,  fiercer,  o'er  the  crest  the 
reek  runs  past 

And  headlong  hurls  bold  Wadsworth,  con 
quered  by  the  cruel  blast. 

Ye  men  of  Massachusetts,  weep  the  awful 
slaughter  there! 

The  panther  heart  of  Philip  drives  the  Eng 
lish  to  despair, 

As  scalping-knife  and  tomahawk  gleam  in 
th'  affrighted  glare. 

There  Wadsworth  yields  his  spirit,  Brockle- 

bank  must  meet  his  doom; 
Within  the  stone  mill's  shelter  fights  the 
remnant  of  their  force; 

When  swift  upon  the  foemen,  rushing  through 

the  gathering  gloom, 

Cheer    Cowell's    men    from     Brookfield, 
gallant  Prentice  with  his  horse! 

And  Mason  from  the  river,  and  Haynes  join 
in  the  fight, 

Till  Philip's  host  is  routed,  hurled  on  shriek 
ing  through  the  night. 

Defeated,  cursing,  weeping,  flees  King  Philip 
to  his  den, 


Our  speedy  vengeance  glutted  on  the  flower 

of  his  men; 
In  pomp  and  pride  the  Wampanoags  ne'er 

shall  march  again. 

We  mourn  our  stricken  Captains,  but  not 

vainly  did  they  fall : 
The  King  of  Pocanoket  has  received  their 

stern  command; 
Their  lives  were  laid  down  gladly  at  their 

country's  trumpet-call, 
And  on  their  savage  foemen  have  they  set 

the  heavier  hand; 
Against  our  day-long  valor  was  the  red  man's 

fortune  spent 
And  that  one  day  at  Sudbury  has  saved  a 

continent. 

In  graves  adown  the  hemisphere,  in  graves 

across  the  seas, 
The  sons  of  Massachusetts  sleep,   as  here 

beneath  her  trees, 
Nor  Brocklebank  nor  Wadsworth  is  the  first 

or  last  of  these. 

Oh,  blue  hills  of  New  England,  slanting  to 

the  morning  beams 

Where  suns  and  clouds  of  April  have  their 
balmy  power  sped ; 

Oh,  greening  woods  and  meadows,  pleasant 

ponds  and  babbling  streams, 
And   clematis   soft-blooming   where   War 
once  his  banners  led; 

How  hungers  many  an  exile  for  that  home 
land  far  away, 

And  all  the  happy  dreaming  of  a  bygone  April 
day! 

Wherever  speaks  New  England,  wheresoever 

spreads  her  shade, 
We  praise  our  fathers'  valor,  and  our  fathers' 

prayer  is  said, 
That,  fearing  God's  Wrath  only,  firm  may 

stand  the  State  they  made. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


The  victory  at  Sudbury  was  the  last  considerable 
success  the  Indians  gained  in  the  war.  Jealousies 
broke  out  among  them,  many  deserted  to  the 
whites,  and  the  final  blow  was  struck  when,  at 
daybreak  of  August  12,  1676,  Captain  Church 
surprised  Philip's  camp  at  Mt.  Hope,  and  Philip 
himself  was  shot  by  an  Indian  while  trying  to 
escape.  His  head  was  cut  off,  sent  to  Plymouth, 
and  fixed  upon  a  pole,  where  it  remained  for  twenty 
years.  His  wife  and  son,  a  boy  of  nine,  were  taken 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


prisoners  and  sold  into  slavery.  With  them,  the 
race  of  Massasoit,  that  true  and  tried  friend  of  the 
early  settlers,  vanishes  from  the  pages  of  history. 


KING  PHILIP'S  LAST  STAND 

[August  12,  1676] 

'T  WAS  Captain  Church,  bescarred  and  brown, 

And  armed  cap-a-pie. 
Came  ambling  into  Plymouth-town; 
And  from  far  riding  up  and  down 

A  weary  man  was  he. 

Now,  where  is  my  good  wife  ?  he  quoth 

Before  the  goodmen  all; 
And  they  replied,  What  of  thine  oath  f 
And  he  looked  on  them  lorn  and  loath, 

As  he  were  like  to  fall. 

What  of  thine  oath  ?  to  him  they  cried, 

And  wilt  thou  let  him  slip 
Who  harrieth  fair  New  England-side 
Till  every  path  is  slaughter-dyed,  — 

The  murderous  King  Philip ! 

His  cheek  went  flush  and  swelled  his  girth ; 

Upon  him  be  God's  ban  ! 
His  voice  ran  loud  in  grisly  mirth: 
Now,  who  with  me  will  run  to  earth 

This  bloody  Indian  ? 

Then  //  and  //  the  lusty  peal 

Made  thrill  the  Plymouth  air; 
And  forth  with  him  for  woe  or  weal, 
Their  hands  agrip  on  musket-steel, 

Hied  many  a  godly  pair. 

They  sped  them  through  the  summer-land 

By  ferry  and  by  ford. 
Until  they  saw  before  them  stand 
A  redman  of  that  cursed  band, 

His  features  ochre-scored. 

Would  the  pale-faces  find,  he  said, 

Where  lurks  their  fiercest  foe  f 
Now,  by  the  spirit  of  the  dead,  — 
My  brother,  whose  hearts  blood  he  shed,  — 

Follow,  and  they  shall  know  ! 

This  Indian  brave,  they  followed  him; 

In  caution  crawled  and  crept; 
Till  in  a  marish  deep  and  dim 
They  came  to  where  the  Sachem  grim 

In  leafy  hiding  slept. 


(The  quiet  August  morn's  at  bud, 

King  Philip,  woe's  the  day! 
And  woe  that  one  of  thine  own  blood, 
Now  that  ill-fortune  roars  to  flood, 

Should  be  the  man  to  slay!) 

Around  him  spread  a  girdling  line; 

The  fatal  snare  was  laid; 
And  when  down  aisles  of  birch  and  pine 
They  saw  the  first  slant  sun-rays  shine, 

They  sprang  their  ambuscade. 

And  did  he  slink,  or  did  he  shrink 

From  that  relentless  ring? 
Nay,  not  a  coward  did  he  sink. 
But  leaped  across  Death's  darkling  brink 

A  savage,  yet  a  king! 

Then  unto  him  whose  bolt  of  lead 

Had  struck  King  Philip  down, 
They  gave  the  Sachem's  hand  and  head; 
Then  back  they  marched,  with  triumph  tread, 

To  joyful  Plymouth-town. 

On  Philip's  name  a  bloody  blot 

The  white  man's  writ  has  thrown,  — 

The  ruthless  raid,  the  inhuman  plot; 

And  yet  what  one  of  us  would  not 
Do  battle  for  his  own  f 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


The  Indians  conquered,  the  people  of  Massa 
chusetts  set  themselves  resolutely  to  fight  the 
devil.  They  were  firm  believers  in  the  actual 
presence  of  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  almost 
from  the  beginning  of  the  colony  there  had  been 
prosecutions  for  witchcraft.  But  it  was  not  until 
1692  that  the  great  outbreak  of  superstition, 
vindictiveness,  and  fear  occurred,  which  forms 
the  darkest  blot  on  New  England's  history. 


PROLOGUE 

From  "Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms  " 

DELUSIONS  of  the  days  that  once  have  been, 
Witchcraft  and   wonders  of   the  world  un 
seen, 

Phantoms  of  air,  and  necromantic  arts 
That  crushed  the  weak  and  awed  the  stoutest 

hearts,  — 
These  are  our  theme  to-night;   and  vaguely 

here. 

Through  the  dim  mists  that  crowd  the  atmos 
phere, 


SALEM 


89 


We  draw  the  outlines  of  weird  figures  cast 
In  shadow  on  the  background  of  the  Past. 

Who  would  believe  that  in  the  quiet  town 
Of  Salem,  and  amid  the  woods  that  crown 
The  neighboring  hillsides,  and  the  sunny 

farms 

That  fold  it  safe  in  their  paternal  arms,  — 
Who  would  believe  that  in  those  peaceful 

streets, 
Where  the  great  elms  shut  out  the  summer 

heats, 
Where  quiet  reigns,   and   breathes  through 

brain  and  breast 

The  benediction  of  unbroken  rest,  — 
Who  would  believe  such  deeds  could  find  a 

place 
As  these  whose  tragic  history  we  retrace? 

'T  was   but   a   village   then :    the   goodman 

ploughed 

His  ample  acres  under  sun  or  cloud; 
The  goodwife  at  her  doorstep  sat  and  spun, 
And  gossiped  with  her  neighbors  in  the  sun; 
The  only  men  of  dignity  and  state 
Were  then  the  Minister  and  the  Magistrate, 
Who  ruled  their  little  realm  with  iron  rod, 
Less  in  the  love  than  ia  the  fear  of  God ; 
And  who  believed  devoutly  in  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness,  working  in  this  world  of  ours, 
In  spells  of  Witchcraft,  incantations  dread, 
And  shrouded  apparitions  of  the  dead. 

Upon  this  simple  folk  "with  fire  and  flame," 
Saith  the  old  Chronicle,  "the  Devil  came; 
Scattering  his  firebrands  and  his  poisonous 

darts, 

To  set  on  fire  of  Hell  all  tongues  and  hearts! 
And  't  is  no  wonder;   for,  with  all  his  host, 
There  most  he  rages  where  he  hateth  most, 
And  is  most  hated ;  so  on  us  he  brings 
All  these  stupendous  and  portentous  things! " 

Something  of  this  our   scene  to-night  will 

show ; 

And  ye  who  listen  to  the  Tale  of  Woe, 
Be  not  too  swift  in  casting  the  first  stone, 
Nor   think    New   England    bears   the   guilt 

alone. 

This  sudden  burst  of  wickedness  and  crime 
Was  but  the  common  madness  of  the  time, 
When  in  all  lands,  that  lie  within  the  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells,  a  Witch  was  burned  or 

drowned. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  outbreak  occurred  in  that  part  of  Salem 
then  called  Salem  Village,  now  the  separate  town 
of  Danvers,  and  was  brought  about  by  three  or 
four  children  who  pretended  to  be  bewitched  and 
who  "cried  out"  against  various  persons.  They 
were  countenanced,  not  to  say  encouraged,  by 
Samuel  Parris,  the  minister  of  the  place,  and 
there  is  evidence  to  show  that  he  used  them  to 
gratify  his  private  enmities. 

SALEM 

[A.  D.  1692] 

SOE,  Mistress  Anne,  faire  neighbour  myne, 

How  rides  a  witch  when  night-winds  blowe  ? 
Folk  say  that  you  are  none  too  goode 
To  joyne  the  crewe  in  Salem  woode, 
When  one  you  wot  of  gives  the  signe: 
Righte  well,  methinks,  the  pathe  you  knowe. 

In  meetinge-time  I  watched  you  well, 
Whiles  godly  Master  Parris  prayed: 

Your  folded  hands  laye  on  your  booke; 

But  Richard  answered  to  a  looke 

That  fain  would  tempt  him  unto  hell, 

Where,  Mistress  Anne,  your  place  is  made. 

You  looke  into  my  Richard's  eyes 

With  evill  glances  shamelesse  growne; 

I  found  about  his  wriste  a  hair, 

And  guesse  what  fingers  tyed  it  there! 

He  shall  not  lightly  be  your  prize  — 
Your  Master  first  shall  take  his  owne. 

'T  is  not  in  nature  he  should  be 

(Who  loved    me   soe   when   Springe   was 

greene) 

A  childe,  to  hange  upon  your  gowne! 
He  loved  me  well  in  Salem  towne 
Until  this  wanton  witcherie 

His  heart  and  myne  crept  dark  betweene. 

Last  Sabbath  nighte,  the  gossips  saye, 
Your  goodman  missed  you  from  his  side. 

He  had  no  strength  to  move,  until 

Agen,  as  if  in  slumber  still, 

Beside  him  at  the  dawne  you  laye. 
Tell,  nowe,  what  meanwhile  did  betide. 

Dame  Anne,  mye  hate  goe  with  you  fleete 

As  drifts  the  Bay  fogg  overhead  — 
Or  over  yonder  hill-topp,  where 
There  is  a  tree  ripe  fruit  shall  bear 
When,  neighbour  myne,  your  wicked  feet 
The  stones  of  Gallows  Hill  shall  tread. 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  special  jury,  instituted  to  try  the  suspects, 
went  to  work  without  delay.  On  June  2,  1692, 
Bridget  Bishop  was  tried  and  condemned  and  was 
hanged  a  week  later.  On  June  30  the  court  sen 
tenced  five  persons  to  death,  and  all  of  them  were 
executed  soon  afterwards.  Among  those  con 
demned  was  Rebecca  Nourse,  seventy-one  years 
of  age,  universally  beloved  and  of  excellent  char 
acter.  The  jury  was  with  great  difficulty  persuaded 
to  convict  her;  the  governor  granted  a  reprieve, 
but  Parris,  who  had  an  ancient  grudge  against  her, 
finally  got  it  repealed,  and  on  July  19,  1692,  she 
was  carted  to  the  summit  of  Gallows  Hill  and 
hanged. 

THE  DEATH  OF  GOODY  NURSE 
[July  19.  1692] 

THE  chill  New  England  sunshine 

Lay  on  the  kitchen  floor; 
The  wild  New  England  north  wind 

Came  rattling  at  the  door. 

And  by  the  wide  old  fire-place, 
Deep  in  her  cushioned  chair, 

Lay  back  an  ancient  woman, 
With  shining  snow-white  hair. 

The  peace  of  God  was  on  her  face, 
Her  eyes  were  sweet  and  calm, 

And  when  you  heard  her  earnest  voice 
It  sounded  like  a  psalm. 

In  all  the  land  they  loved  her  well; 

From  country  and  from  town 
Came  many  a  heart  for  counsel, 

And  many  a  soul  cast  down. 

Her  hands  had  fed  the  hungry  poor 
With  blessing  and  with  bread ; 

Her  face  was  like  a  comforting 
From  out  the  Gospel  read. 

So  weak  and  silent  as  she  lay. 

Her  warm  hands  clasped  in  prayei, 

A  sudden  knocking  at  the  door 
Came  on  her  unaware. 

And  as  she  turned  her  hoary  head, 

Beside  her  chair  there  stood 
Four  grim  and  grisly  Puritans  — 

No  visitants  for  good. 

They  came  upon  her  like  a  host, 

And  bade  her  speak  and  tell 
Why  she  had  sworn  a  wicked  oath 
.    To  serve  the  powers  of  hell; 


To  work  the  works  of  darkness 

On  children  of  the  light, 
A  witch  they  might  not  suffer  here 

Who  read  the  Word  aright. 

Like  one  who  sees  her  fireside  yawn, 

A  pit  of  black  despair, 
Or  one  who  wakes  from  quiet  dreams 

Within  a  lion's  lair, 

She  glared  at  them  with  starting  eyes, 

Her  voice  essayed  no  sound; 
She  gasped  like  any  hunted  deer 

The  eager  dogs  surround. 

"Answer  us!"  hoarse  and  loud  they  cry; 

She  Jooked  from  side  to  side  — 
No  human  help  —  "Oh,  gracious  God!" 

In  agony  she  cried. 

Then,  calling  back  her  feeble  life, 

The  white  lips  uttered  slow, 
"1  am  as  pure  as  babe  unborn 

From  this  foul  thing,  ye  know. 

"If  God  doth  visit  me  for  sin, 

Beneath  His  rod  I  bend," 
But  pitiless  and  wroth  were  they, 

And  bent  upon  their  end. 

They  tortured  her  with  taunt  and  jeer, 
They  vexed  her  night  and  day  — 

No  husband's  arm  nor  sister's  tears 
Availed  their  rage  to  stay. 

Before  the  church  they  haled  her  then; 

The  minister  arose 
And  poured  upon  her  patient  head 

The  worst  of  all  its  woes: 

He  bade  her  be  accursed  of  God 

Forever  here  and  there; 
He  cursed  her  with  a  heavy  curse 

No  mortal  man  may  bear. 

She  stood  among  the  cowering  crowd 

As  calm  as  saints  in  heaven. 
Her  eyes  as  sweet  as  summer  skies, 

Her  face  like  summer's  even. 

The  devils  wrought  their  wicked  will 

On  matron  and  on  maid. 
"Thou  hast  bewitched  us!"  cried  they  all, 

But  not  a  word  she  said. 


A   SALEM  WITCH 


They  fastened  chains  about  her  feet, 

And  carried  her  away; 
For  many  days  in  Salem  jail 

Alone  and  ill  she  lay 

She  heard  the  scythe  along  the  field 
Ring  through  the  fragrant  air, 

She  smelt  the  wild-rose  on  the  wind 
That  bloweth  everywhere. 

Reviled  and  hated  and  bereft, 

The  soul  had  plenteous  rest, 
Though  sorrow  like  a  frantic  flood 

Beat  sore  upon  her  breast. 

At  last  the  prison  door  stood  wide, 

They  led  the  saint  abroad; 
By  many  an  old  familiar  place 

Her  trembling  footsteps  trod. 

Till  faint  with  weakness  and  distress, 

She  climbed  a  hillside  bleak, 
And  faced  the  gallows  built  thereon, 

Still  undisturbed  and  meek. 

They  hanged  this  weary  woman  there, 

Like  any  felon  stout; 
Her  white  hairs  on  the  cruel  rope 

Were  scattered  all  about. 

The  body  swung  upon  the  tree 

In  every  flitting  wind, 
Reviled  and  mocked  by  passengers 

And  folk  of  evil  mind. 

A  woman  old  and  innocent, 

To  die  a  death  of  shame, 
With  kindred,  neighbors,  friends  thereby, 

And  none  to  utter  blame. 

Oh,  God,  that  such  a  thing  should  be 
On  earth  which  Thou  hast  made! 

A  voice  from  heaven  answered  me, 
"  Father  forgive,"  He  said. 

ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 


At  the  August  session,  six  persons  were  tried 
and,  of  course,  condemned,  among  them  Eliza 
beth  and  John  Proctor.  The  former  had  been 
arrested  April  1 1 ,  and  when  her  husband  came  to 
her  defence,  he  was  also  arrested.  They  were 
tried  together  August  5,  and  both  were  convicted 
and  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  Proctor  was  exe 
cuted  August  19.  His  wife  escaped  by  pleading 
pregnancy.  Some  months  later  she  gave  birth 
to  a  child,  and  her  execution  was  again  ordered 


early   in    1693,   but   Governor   Phips   granted   a 
reprieve,  and  she  ultimately  escaped. 


A  SALEM  WITCH 


[August  19,  1692] 


THE 


wind   blows   east,  —  the   wind    blows 
west,  — 

It  blows  upon  the  gallows  tree: 
Oh,  little  babe  beneath  my  breast, 
He  died  for  thee !  —  he  died  for  me ! 


The  judges  came,  —  the  children  came 
(Some    mother's    heart    o'er    each    had 
yearned), 

They  set  their  black  lies  on  my  name :  — 
"A  God-accursed  witch  who  learned 

"Each  night  (they  said)  the  Devil's  art, 
Through  Salem  wood  by  devils  drawn." — 

I,  whose  heart  beat  against  his  heart 

From  dark  till  dawn !  —  from  dark  till  dawn ! 

He  faced  them  in  his  fearless  scorn 
(The  sun  was  on  him  as  he  stood) : 

"  No  purer  is  her  babe  unborn ; 
I  prove  her  sinless  with  my  blood." 

They  spared  the  babe  beneath  my  breast,  — 
They  bound  his  hands,  —  they  set  me 
free, — 

Hush,  hush,  my  babe!  hush,  hush  and  rest; 
He  died  for  thee !  —  he  died  for  me ! 

They  dragged  him,  bound,  to  Gallows  Hill 
(I  saw  the  flowers  among  the  grass) ; 

The  women  came,  —  I  hear  them  still,  — 
They  held  their  babes  to  see  him  pass. 

God  curse  them !  —  Nay,  —  Oh  God  forgive ! 

He  said  it  while  their  lips  reviled ; 
He  kissed  my  lips,  —  he  whispered:  "Live! 

The  father  loves  thee  in  the  child." 

Then  earth  and  sky  grew  black,  —  I  fell  -^ 
I  lay  as  stone  beside  their  stone. 

They  did  their  work.  They  earned  their  Hell. 
I  woke  on  Gallows  Hill,  alone. 

Oh  Christ  who  suffered,  Christ  who  blessed, 
Shield  him  upon  the  gallows  tree! 

O  babe,  his  babe,  beneath  my  breast, 
He  died  for  thee !  —  he  died  for  me ! 

EDNAH  PROCTOR  CLARKE.  • 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  case  of  Giles  Corey  is  one  of  the  most  tragic 
in  all  this  hideous  drama.  When  arrested  and 
brought  before  the  court,  he  refused  to  plead  — 
"  stood  mute,"  as  the  law  termed  it.  The  penalty 
for  "  standing  mute,"  according  to  the  English 
law  of  the  time,  was  that  the  prisoner  "  be  re 
manded  to  prison  .  .  .  and  there  be  laid  on  his 
back  on  the  bare  floor  .  .  .  ;  that  there  be  placed 
upon  his  body  as  great  a  weight  of  iron  as  he  can 
bear,  and  more,"  until  death  should  ensue.  This 
was  the  penalty  Giles  Corey  suffered. 


THE  TRIAL 

From  "  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms  " 
[September  7,  1 692] 

SCENE  II.  —  Interior  of  the  Meeting-house. 
MATHER  and  the  Magistrates  seated  in  front 
of  the  pulpit.  Before  them  a  raised  platform. 
MARTHA  in  chains.  COREY  near  her.  MARY 
WALCOT  in  a  chair.  A  crowd  of  spectators, 
among  them  GLOYD.  Confusion  and  mur 
murs  during  the  scene. 

HATHORNE 

CALL  Martha  Corey. 

MARTHA 

I  am  here. 

HATHORNE 

Come  forward. 
She  ascends  the  platform. 
The  Jurors  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  Lady 
The  King  and  Queen,  here  present,  do  ac 
cuse  you 

Of  having  on  the  tenth  of  June  last  past, 
And  divers  other  times  before  and  after, 
Wickedly  used  and  practised  certain  arts 
Called  Witchcrafts,  Sorceries,  and  Incanta 
tions, 

Against  one  Mary  Walcot,  single  woman, 
Of  Salem  Village:  by  which  wicked  arts 
The  aforesaid  Mary  Walcot  was  tormented, 
Tortured,   afflicted,    pined,    consumed,    and 

wasted, 
Against  the  peace  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and 

Lady 

The  King  and  Queen,  as  well  as  of  the  Statute 
Made  and  provided  in  that  case.    What  say 
you? 

MARTHA 

Before  I  answer,  give  me  leave  to  pray. 


HATHORNE 

We  have  not  sent  for  you,  nor  are  we  here, 
To  hear  you  pray,  but  to  examine  you 
In  whatsoever  is  alleged  against  you 
Why  do  you  hurt  this  person  ? 

MARTHA 

I  do  not. 
I  ara  not  guilty  of  the  charge  against  me. 

MARY 

Avoid,  she-devil !  You  may  torment  me  now ! 
Avoid,  avoid,  Witch! 

MARTHA 

I  am  innocent. 

I  never  had  to  do  with  any  Witchcraft 
Since  I  was  born.  I  am  a  gospel  woman. 

MARY 
You  are  a  gospel  Witch! 

MARTHA  (clasping  her  hands) 

Ah  me!  ah  me! 
Oh,  give  me  leave  to  pray! 

MARY  (stretching  out  her  hands) 

She  hurts  me  now. 
See,  she  has  pinched  my  hands! 

HATHORNE 

Who  made  these  marks 
Upon  her  hands  ? 

MARTHA 

I  do  not  know.   I  stand 
Apart  from  her.   I  did  not  touch  her  hands. 

HATHORNE 

Who  hurt  her  then  ? 

MARTHA 

I  know  not. 


HATHORNE 


She  is  bewitched  ? 


Do  you  think 


MARTHA 

Indeed  I  do  not  think  so. 
I  am  no  Witch,  and  have  no  faith  in  Witches. 

HATHORNE 

Then   answer  me:    When   certain   persons 
came 


THE   TRIAL 


To  see  you  yesterday,  how  did  you  know 
Beforehand  why  they  came? 

MAKTHA 

I  had  had  speech; 

The  children  said  I  hurt  them,  and  I  thought 
These  people  came  to  question  me  about  it. 

HATHORNE 

How  did  you  know  the  children  had  been 

told 
To  note  the  clothes  you  wore  ? 

MARTHA 

My  husband  told  me 
What  others  said  about  it. 

HATHORNE 

Goodman  Corey, 
Say,  did  you  tell  her  ? 


I  must  speak  the  truth; 
I  did  not  tell  her.  It  was  some  one  else. 

HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  say  your  husband  told  you  so  ? 
How  dare  you  tell  a  lie  in  this  assembly  ? 
Who  told  you  of  the  clothes?    Confess  the 

truth. 

MARTHA  bites  her  lips,  and  is  silent. 
You  bite  your  lips,  but  do  not  answer  me! 

MARY 

Ah,  she  is  biting  me!  Avoid,  avoid! 

HATHORNE 

You  said  your  husband  told  you. 

MARTHA 

Yes,  he  told  me 
The  children  said  I  troubled  them. 


Then  tell  me, 


I  have  denied  it. 


HATHORNE 

Why  do  you  trouble  them  ? 

MARTHA 
MARY 

She  threatened  me;  stabbed  at  me  with  her 

spindle; 
And,  when  my  brother  thrust  her  with  his 

sword, 


He  tore  her  gown,  and  cut  a  piece  away. 
Here  are  they  both,  the  spindle  and  the  cloth. 
Shows  them. 

HATHORNE 

And  there  are  persons  here  who  know  the 

truth 
Of  what  has  now  been  said.    What  answer 

make  you  ? 

MARTHA 

I  make  no  answer.  Give  me  leave  to  pray. 

HATHORNE 

Whom  would  you  pray  to  ? 

MARTHA 

To  my  God  and  Father. 

HATHORNE 

Who  is  your  God  and  Father  ? 


MARTHA 


The  Almighty! 


HATHORNE 

Doth  he  you  pray  to  say  that  he  is  God  ? 
It  is  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  and  not  God. 


There  is  a  dark  shape  whispering  in  her  ear. 

HATHORNE 

What  does  it  say  to  you  ? 


MARTHA 


I  see  no  shape. 


HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  hear  it  whisper  ? 

MARTHA 

I  heard  nothing. 

MARY 

What  torture!  Ah,  what  agony  I  suffer! 
Falls  into  a  swoon. 

HATHORNE 

You  see  this  woman  cannot  stand  before 

you. 

If  you  would  look  for  mercy,  you  must  look 
In  God's  way,  by  confession  of  your  guilt. 
Why  does  your  spectre  haunt  and  hurt  this 

person  ? 


94 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


I  do  not  know.   He  who  appeared  of  old 
In  Samuel's  shape,  a  saint  and  glorified, 
May  come  in  whatsoever  shape  he  chooses. 
I  cannot  help  it.   I  am  sick  at  heart! 

COREY 

0  Martha,  Martha!   let  me  hold  your  hand. 

HATHORNE 

No;   stand  aside,  old  man. 

MARY  (starting  up) 

Look  there!  Look  there! 

1  see  a  little  bird,  a  yellow  bird, 
Perched  on  her  finger;   and  it  pecks  at  me. 
Ah,  it  will  tear  mine  eyes  out! 


MARTHA 


I  see  nothing. 


HATHORNE 

T  is  the  Familiar  Spirit  that  attends  her. 


Now  it  has  flown  away.  It  sits  up  there 
Upon  the  rafters.   It  is  gone;   is  vanished. 

MARTHA 

Giles,  wipe  these  tears  of  anger  from  mine  eyes. 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  my  forehead.  I  am  faint. 

She  leans  against  the  railing. 

MARY 
Oh,  she  is  crushing  me  with  all  her  weight ! 

HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  carry  once  the  Devil's  Book 
To  this  young  woman  ? 

MARTHA 

Never. 


Or  touched  it? 


HATHORNE 

Have  you  signed  it, 

MARTHA 

No;  I  never  saw  it. 


HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  scourge  her  with  an  iron  rod  ? 

MARTHA 

No,  I  did  not.  If  any  Evil  Spirit 


Has  taken  my  shape  to  do  these  evil  deeds, 
I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  innocent. 

HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  say  the  Magistrates  were  blind  ? 
That  you  would  open  their  eyes  ? 

MARTHA  (with  a  scornful  laugh) 

Yes,  I  said  that; 

If  you  call  me  a  sorceress,  you  are  blind ! 
If  you  accuse  the  innocent,  you  are  blind ! 
Can  the  innocent  be  guilty  ? 

HATHORNE 

Did  you  not 

On  one  occasion  hide  your  husband's  saddle 
To   hinder   him   from   coming   to   the   Ses 
sions  ? 

MARTHA 

I  thought  it  was  a  folly  in  a  farmer 

To  waste  his  time  pursuing  such  illusions. 

HATHORNE 

What  was  the  bird  that  this  young  woman 

saw 
Just  now  upon  your  hand  ? 


I  know  no  bird. 

HATHORNE 

Have  you  not  dealt  with  a  Familiar  Spirit  ? 

MARTHA 

No,  never,  never! 

HATHORNE 

What  then  was  the  Book 
You  showed  to  this  young  woman,  and  be 
sought  her 
To  write  in  it  ? 

MARTHA 

Where  should  I  have  a  book  ? 
I  showed  her  none,  nor  have  none. 

MART. 

The  next  Sabbath 

Is  the  Communion  Day,  but  Martha  Corey 
Will  not  be  there! 

MARTHA 

Ah,  you  are  all  against  me. 
What  can  I  do  or  say  ? 


THE  TRIAL 


95 


HATHORNE 

You  can  confess. 

MARTHA 

No,  I  cannot,  for  I  am  innocent. 

HATHORNE 

We  have  the  proof  of  many  witnesses 
That  you  are  guilty. 

MARTHA 

Give  me  leave  to  speak. 
Will  you  condemn  me  on  such  evidence,  — 
You  who  have  known  me  for  so  many  years  ? 
Will  you  condemn  me  in  this  house  of  God, 
Where  I  so  long  have  worshipped  with  you  all  ? 
Where  I  have  eaten  the  bread  and  drunk  the 

wine 

So  many  times  at  our  Lord's  Table  with  you  ? 
Bear  witness,  you  that  hear  me ;  you  all  know 
That  I  have  led  a  blameless  life  among  you, 
That  never  any  whisper  of  suspicion 
Was  breathed  against  me  till  this  accusation. 
And  shall  this  count  for  nothing?  Will  you 

take 

My  life  away  from  me,  because  this  girl, 
Who  is  distraught,  and  not  in  her  right  mind, 
Accuses  me  of  things  I  blush  to  name  ? 

HATHORNE 

What!    is  it  not  enough?    Would  you  hear 

more? 
Giles  Corey! 

COREY 
I  am  here. 

HATHORNE 

Come  forward,  then. 
COREY  ascends  ihe  platform. 
Is  it  not  true,  that  on  a  certain  night 
You  were  impeded  strangely  in  your  prayers  ? 
That  something  hindered  you  ?  and  that  you 

left 

This  woman  here,  your  wife,  kneeling  alone 
Upon  the  hearth  ? 

COREY 

Yes;  I  cannot  deny  it. 

HATHORNE 

Did  you  not  say  the  Devil  hindered  you  ? 

COREY 
I  think  I  said  some  words  to  that  effect. 


HATHORNE 

Is  it  not  true,  that  fourteen  head  of  cattle, 
To  you  belonging,  broke  from  their  enclosure 
And  leaped  into  the  river,  and  were  drowned  ? 

COREY 

It  is  most  true. 

HATHORNE 

And  did  you  not  then  say 
That  they  were  overlooked  ? 

COREY 

So  much  I  said. 

I  see ;  they  're  drawing  round  me  closer,  closer, 
A  net  I  cannot  break,  cannot  escape  from ! 

(Aside.) 

HATHORNE 

Who  did  these  things  ? 

COREY 
I  do  not  know  who  did  them- 

HATHORNE 

Then  I  will  tell  you.    It  is  some  one  near 

you; 
You  see  her  now ;  this  woman,  your  own  wife- 


I  call  the  heavens  to  witness,  it  is  false! 
She  never  harmed  me,  never  hindered  me 
In  anything  but  what  I  should  not  do. 
And  I  bear  witness  in  the  sight  of  heaven, 
And  in  God's  house  here,  that  1  never  knew 

her 

As  otherwise  than  patient,  brave,  and  true, 
Faithful,  forgiving,  full  of  charity, 
A  virtuous  and  industrious  and  good  wife ! 

HATHORNE 

Tut,  tut,  man ;  do  not  rant  so  in  your  speech ; 

You  are  a  witness,  not  an  advocate! 

Here,  Sheriff,  take  this  woman  back  to  prison. 

MARTHA 

O  Giles,  this  day  you've  sworn  away  my  life! 

MARY 

Go,  go  and  join  the  Witches  at  the  door. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  drum  ?  Do  you  not  see 

them? 
Go  quick.  They  're  waiting  for  you.  You  are 

late! 

[Exit  MARTHA;  COREY  jollovring. 


COREY 

The  dream !   the  dream !   the  dream ! 

HATHORNE 

What  does  he  say  ? 

Giles  Corey,  go  not  hence.   You  are  yourself 
Accused  of  Witchcraft  and  of  Sorcery 
By  many  witnesses.    Say,  are  you  guilty? 

COREY 

I  know  my  death  is  foreordained  by  you,  — 
Mine  and  my  wife's.    Therefore  I  will  not 

answer. 
During  the  rest  of  the  scene  he  remains  silent. 

HATHORNE 

Do  you  refuse  to  plead  ?  —  'T  were  better 

for  you 

To  make  confession,  or  to  plead  Not  Guilty.  — 
Do  you  not  hear  me  ?  —  Answer,  are  you 

gui.'ty  ? 

Do  you  not  know  a  heavier  doom  awaits  you, 
If  you  refuse  to  plead,  than  if  found  guilty  ? 
Where  is  John  Gloyd? 

GLOYD  (coming  forward) 
Here  am  I. 

HATHORNE 

Tell  the  Court; 

Have  you  not  seen  the  supernatural  power 
Of  this  old  man  ?  Have  you  not  seen  him  do 
Strange  feats  of  strength  ? 

GLOYD 

I've  seen  him  lead  the  field, 
On  a  hot  day,  in  mowing,  and  against 
Us  younger  men;   and  I  have  wrestled  with 

him. 

He  threw  me  like  a  feather.  I  have  seen  him 
Lift  up  a  barrel  with  his  single  hands. 
Which   two   strong   men   could   hardly   lift 

together. 
And,  holding  it  above  his  head,  drink  from  it. 

HATHORNE 

That  is  enough ;  we  need  not  question  further. 
What  answer  do  you  make  to  this,  Giles 
Corey  ? 

MARY 
See  there!  See  there! 

HATHORNE 

What  is  it  ?  I  see  nothing. 


Look!    Look!    It   is   the   ghost   of   Robert 

Goodell, 

Whom  fifteen  years  ago  this  man  did  murder 
By  stamping  on  his  body!  In  his  shroud 
He  comes  here  to  bear  witness  to  the  crime! 
The  crowd  shrinks  back  from  COREY  in  horror. 

HATHORNE 

Ghosts  of  the  dead  and  voices  of  the  living 
Bear  witness  to  your  guilt,  and  you  must  die ! 
It  might  have  been  an  easier  death.    Your 

doom 

Will  be  on  your  own  head,  and  not  on  ours. 
Twice  more  will  you  be  questioned  of  these 

things ; 

Twice  more  have  room  to  plead  or  to  confess. 
If  you  are  contumacious  to  the  Court, 
And  if,  when  questioned,  you  refuse  to  answer, 
Then  by  the  Statute  you  will  be  condemned 
To  the  peine  forte  et  dure  !  To  have  your  body 
Pressed  by  great  weights  until  you  shall  be 

dead! 
And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


GILES   COREY 

[September  19,  1692] 

GILES  COREY  was  a  Wizzard  strong, 
A  stubborn  wretch  was  he; 

And  fitt  was  he  to  hang  on  high 
Upon  the  Locust-tree. 

So  when  before  the  magistrates 

For  triall  he  did  come, 
He  would  no  true  confession  make, 

But  was  compleatlie  dumbe. 

'Giles  Corey,"  said  the  Magistrate, 
"What  hast  thou  heare  to  pleade 

To  these  that  now  accuse  thy  soule 
Of  crimes  and  horrid  deed  ?  " 

Giles  Corey,  he  said  not  a  worde, 

No  single  worde  spoke  he. 
'Giles  Corey,"  saith  the  Magistrate, 
"  We  '11  press  it  out  of  thee." 

They  got  them  then  a  heavy  beam, 
They  laid  it  on  his  breast; 

They  loaded  it  with  heavy  stones, 
And  hard  upon  him  prest. 


MISTRESS   HALE  OF  BEVERLY 


97 


"More  weight !"  now  said  this  wretched  man ; 

"  More  weight ! "   again  he  cried ; 
And  he  did  no  confession  make, 
But  wickedly  he  dyed. 

One  of  the  most  assiduous  of  the  prosecutors 
had  been  John  Hale,  minister  of  the  First  Church 
at  Beverly.  In  October  the  accusers  "  cried  out " 
against  his  wife,  who  was  widely  known  for  gen 
erous  and  disinterested  virtues.  Hale  knew  the 
"  innocence  and  piety  of  his  wife,  and  stood  be 
tween  her  and  the  storm  he  had  helped  to  raise. 
The  whole  community  became  convinced  that 
the  accusers  in  crying  out  upon  Mrs.  Hale  had 
perjured  themselves,  and  from  that  moment  their 
power  was  destroyed." 

MISTRESS  HALE  OF  BEVERLY 

[October,  1692] 

THE  roadside  forests  here  and  there  were 

touched  with  tawny  gold; 
The  days  were  shortening,  and  at  dusk  the 

sea  looked  blue  and  cold; 
Through  his  long  fields  the  minister  paced, 

restless,  up  and  down; 
Before,  the  land-locked  harbor  lay;   behind, 

the  little  town. 

No  careless  chant  of  harvester  or  fisherman 

awoke 
The  silent  air;   no  clanging  hoof,  no  curling 

weft  of  smoke, 
Where  late  the  blacksmith's  anvil  rang;   all 

dumb  as  death,  —  and  why  ? 
Why?  echoed    back   the   minister's   chilled 

heart,  for  sole  reply. 

His  wife  was  watching  from  the  door;  she 
came  to  meet  him  now 

A  weary  sadness  in  her  voice,  a  care  upon  her 
brow. 

A  vague,  oppressive  mystery,  a  hint  of  un 
known  fear, 

Hung  hovering  over  every  roof:  it  was  the 
witchcraft  year. 

She  kid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looked 
into  his  face, 

And  as  he  turned  away  she  turned,  beside  him 
keeping  pace: 

And,  "Oh,  my  husband,  let  me  speak!"  said 
gentle  Mistress  Hale, 

"  For  truth  is  fallen  in  the  street,  and  false 
hoods  vile  prevail. 


"  The  very  air  we  breathe  is  thick  with  whis 
perings  of  hell; 

The  foolish  trust  the  quaking  bog,  where  wise 
men  sink  as  well, 

Who  follow  them :  O  husband  mine,  for  love 
of  me,  beware 

Of  touching  slime  that  from  the  pit  is  oozing 
everywhere ! 

"The  rulers  and  the  ministers,  tell  me,  what 

have  they  done, 
Through  all  the  dreadful  weeks  since  this 

dark  inquest  was  begun, 
Save  to  encourage  thoughtless  girls  in  their 

unhallowed  ways, 
And  bring  to  an  untimely  end  many  a  good 

woman's  days? 

"Think  of  our  neighbor,  Goodwife  Hoar; 
because  she  would  not  say 

She  was  in  league  with  evil  powers,  she  pines 
in  jail  to-day. 

Think  of  our  trusty  field-hand,  Job,  —  a 
swaggerer,  it  is  true,  — 

Boasting  he  feared  no  Devil,  they  have  con 
demned  him,  too. 

"  And  Bridget  Bishop,  when  she  lived  yonder 
at  Ryal-side, 

What  if  she  kept  a  shovel-board,  and  trimmed 
with  laces  wide 

Her  scarlet  bodice :  grant  she  was  too  frivo 
lous  and  vain; 

How  dared  they  take  away  the  life  they  could 
not  give  again  ? 

"Nor  soberness  availeth  aught;  for  who  hath 

suffered  worse, 
Through  persecutions  undeserved,  than  good 

Rebecca  Nurse? 
Forsaken  of  her  kith  and  kin,  alone  in  her 

despair, 
It  almost  seemed  as  if  God's  ear  were  closed 

against  her  prayer. 

"They  spare  not  even  infancy:    poor  little 

Dorcas  Good, 
The  vagrant's  child  —  but  four  years  old !  — 

who  says  that  baby  could 
To  Satan  sign  her  soul  away  condemns  this 

business  blind, 
As  but  the  senseless  babbling  of  a  weak  and 

wicked  mind. 


98 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"Is  it  not  like  the  ancient  tale  they  tell  of 

Phaeton, 
Whose  ignorant  hands  were  trusted  with  the 

horses  of  the  sun  ? 
Our  teachers  now  by  witless  youths  are  led 

on  and  beguiled: 
Woe  to  the  land,  the  Scripture  saith,  whose 

ruler  is  a  child ! 

"God  grant  this  dismal  day  be  short!  Except 

help  soon  arrive, 
To  ruin   these  deluded  ones  will  our  fair 

country  drive. 
If  I  to-morrow  were  accused,  what  further 

could  I  plead 
Than  those  who  died,  whom  neither  judge 

nor  minister  would  heed  ? 

"I  pray  thee,  husband,  enter  not  their  councils 

any  more!  . 

My  heart  aches  with  forebodings!    Do  not 

leave  me,  I  implore! 
Yet  if  to  turn  this  curse  aside  my  life  might 

but  avail, 
In  Christ's  name  would  I  yield  it  up,"  said 

gentle  Mistress  Hale. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  dreamed  a  strange 

dream  that  night: 
He  dreamed  the  tide  came  up,  blood-red, 

through  inlet,  cove,  and  bight, 
Till  Salem  village  was  submerged ;  until  Bass 

River  rose, 
A  threatening  crimson  gulf,  that  yawned  the 

hamlet  to  inclose. 

It  rushed  in  at  the  cottage-doors  whence 

women  fled  and  wept; 
Close  to  the  little  meeting-house  with  serpent 

curves  it  crept ; 
The   grave-mounds   in   the   burying-ground 

were  sunk  beneath  its  flood; 
The  doorstone  of  the  parsonage  was  dashed 

with  spray  of  blood. 

And  on  the  threshold,  praying,  knelt  his  dear 
and  honored  wife, 

As  one  who  would  thai  deluge  stay  at  cost  of 
her  own  life.  — 

"  Oh,  save  her !  save  us,  Christ ! "  the  cry  un 
locked  him  from  his  dream, 

And  at  his  casement  in  the  east  he  saw  the 
day-star  gleam. 


The  minister  that  morning  said,  "Only  this 

once  I  go, 
Beloved  wife;   I  cannot  tell  if  witches  be  or 

no. 
We  on  the  judgment-throne  have  sat  in  place 

of  God  too  long; 
I  fear  me  much  lest  we  have  done  His  flock 

a  grievous  wrong: 

"And  this  before  my  brethren  will  I  testify 

to-day." 
Around  him  quiet  wooded  isles  and  placid 

waters  lay, 
As  unto  Salem-Side  he  crossed.   He  reached 

the  court-room  small, 
Just  as  a  shrill,  unearthly  shriek  echoed  from 

wall  to  wall. 


"Woe!  Mistress  Hale  tormenteth  me!  She 
came  in  like  a  bird, 

Perched  on  her  husband's  shoulder!"  Then 
silence  fell;  no  word 

Spake  either  judge  or  minister,  while  with 
profound  amaze 

Each  fixed  upon  the  other's  face  his  horror- 
stricken  gaze. 

But,  while  the  accuser  writhed  in  wild  con 
tortions  on  the  floor, 

One  rose  and  said,  "Let  all  withdraw!  the 
court  is  closed ! "  no  more : 

For  well  the  land  knew  Mistress  Hale's  rare 
loveliness  and  worth; 

Her  virtues  bloomed  like  flowers  of  heaven 
along  the  paths  of  earth. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  went  homeward  rid 
ing  fast; 

His  wife  shrank  back  from  his  strange  look, 
affrighted  and  aghast. 

"Dear  wife  thou  ailest!  Shut  thyself  into  thy 
room!"  said  he; 

"Whoever  comes,  the  latch-string  keep 
drawn  in  from  all  save  me!" 

Nor  his  life's  treasure  from  close  guard  did  he 

one  moment  lose, 
Until  across  the  ferry  came  a  messenger  with 

news 
That  the  bewitched  ones  acted   now  vain 

mummeries  of  woe; 
The  judges  looked  and  wondered  still,  but 

all  the  accused  let  go. 


ST.  JOHN 


The  dark  cloud  rolled  from  off  the  land ;  the 
golden  leaves  dropped  down 

Along  the  winding  wood-paths  of  the  little 
sea-side  town : 

In  Salem  Village  there  was  peace ;  with  witch 
craft-trials  passed 

The  nightmare- terror  from  the  vexed  New 
England  air  at  last. 

Again  in  natural  tones  men  dared  to  laugh 

aloud  and  speak; 
From  Naugus  Head  the  fisher's  shout  rang 

back  to  Jeffrey's  Creek; 
The  phantom-soldiery  withdrew,  that  haunted 

Gloucester  shore; 
The  teamster's  voice  through  Wenham  Woods 

broke  into  psalms  once  more. 

The  minister  of  Beverly  thereafter  sorely 

grieved 
That  he  had  inquisition  held  with  counsellors 

deceived ; 
Forsaking  love's  unerring  light  and  duty's 

solid  ground, 
And  groping  in  the  shadowy  void,   where 

truth  is  never  found. 

Errors  are  almost  trespasses;    rarely  indeed 

we  know 
How  our  mistakes  hurt  other  hearts,  until 

some  random  blow 


Has  well-nigh  broken  our  own.  Alas!  regret 
could  not  restore 

To  lonely  hearths  the  presences  that  glad 
dened  them  before. 

As  with  the  grain  our  fathers  sowed  sprang 

up  Old  England's  weeds, 
So  to  their  lofty  piety  clung  superstition's  seeds. 
Though  tares  grow  with  it,  wheat  is  wheat: 

by  food  from  heaven  we  live: 
Yet  whoso  asks  for  daily  bread  must  add, 

"Our  sins  forgive!" 

Truth  made  transparent  in  a  life,  tried  gold  of 
character. 

Were  Mistress  Hale's,  and  this  is  all  that  his 
tory  says  of  her; 

Their  simple  force,  like  sunlight,  broke  the 
hideous  midnight  spell, 

And  sight  restored  again  to  eyes  obscured 
by  films  of  hell. 

The  minister's  long  fields  are  still  with  dews 
of  summer  wet; 

The  roof  that  sheltered  Mistress  Hale  tradi 
tion  points  to  yet. 

Green  be  her  memory  ever  kept  all  over 
Cape-Ann-Side, 

Whose  unobtrusive  excellence  awed  back 
delusion's  tide! 

LUCY  LAHCOM. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE   STRUGGLE   FOR   THE   CONTINENT 


While  England  was  colonizing  the  Atlantic 
seaboard,  France  was  firmly  establishing  herself 
to  the  north  along  the  St.  Lawrence.  It  was  in 
evitable  that  war  should  follow;  and  as  early  as 
1613  the  English  had  destroyed  the  French  settle 
ments  in  Nova  Scotia.  The  country  had  scarcely 
rallied  from  the  blow,  when  it  was  torn  asunder 
by  the  contest  between  Charles  la  Tour  and  the 
Chevalier  D'Aulnay  —  a  contest  which,  after 
twelve  years,  resulted  in  victory  for  the  latter. 


ST.  JOHN 

[April,  1647] 

"To  the  winds  give  our  banner! 

Bear  homeward  again!" 
Cried  the  Ix>rd  of  Acadia, 
Cried  Charles  of  Estienne! 


From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well. 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell; 


IOO 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemaquid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
Oh,  well  sped  La  Tour! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 
My  castle  within?" 


From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke: 

"No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"But  what  of  my  lady?" 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne. 
"On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen: 

"Half -veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men ! 

"Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"Let  the  dastard  look  to  it!" 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"Were  D'Aulnay  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again!" 

"Alas  for  thy  lady! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free; 


THE  BATTLE   OF  LA   PRAIRIE 


101 


Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door!" 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"We  cruise  now  for  vengeance! 

Give  away!"  cried  Estienne. 

"Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun!" 

Oh,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him; 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


The  rivalry  between  the  colonists  for  the  fur 
trade  grew  steadily  more  bitter,  and  in  1690  (King 
William's  War)  Canada  undertook  the  conquest 
of  New  York  and  destroyed  a  number  of  frontier 
towns.  The  English  made  some  reprisals;  Sir 
William  Phips  capturing  Acadia  and  Major  Peter 
Schuyler  leading  a  raid  into  the  country  south  of 
Montreal,  where  he  defeated  a  considerable  body 
of  French  and  Indians  under  Valrennes,  in  a 
spirited  fight  at  La  Prairie. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LA  PRAIRIE 

[1691] 

THAT  was  a  brave  old  epoch, 

Our  age  of  chivalry, 
When  the  Briton  met  the  Frenchman 

At  the  fig 'it  of  La  Prairie; 
And  the  manhood  of  New  England, 

And  the  Netherlanders  true 
And  Mohawks  sworn,  gave  battle 

To  the  Bourbon's  lilied  blue. 


That  was  a  brave  old  governor 

Who  gathered  his  array, 
And  stood  to  meet,  he  knew  not  what, 

On  that  alarming  day. 
Eight  hundred,  amid  rumors  vast 

That  filled  the  wild  wood's  gloom, 
With  all  New  England's  flower  of  youth, 

Fierce  for  New  France's  doom. 

And  the  brave  old  half  five  hundred! 

Theirs  should  in  truth  be  fame; 
Borne  down  the  savage  Richelieu, 

On  what  emprise  they  came! 
Your  hearts  are  great  enough,  O  few : 

Only  your  numbers  fail,  — 
New  France  asks  more  for  conquerors, 

All  glorious  though  your  tale. 

It  was  a  brave  old  battle 

That  surged  around  the  fort, 
When  D'Hosta  fell  in  charging, 

And  't  was  deadly  strife  and  short; 
When  in  the  very  quarters 

They  contested  face  and  hand, 
And  many  a  goodly  fellow 

Crimsoned  yon  La  Prairie  sand. 

And  those  were  brave  old  orders 

The  colonel  gave  to  meet 
That  forest  force  with  trees  entrenched 

Opposing  the  retreat: 
'De  Calliere's  strength's  behind  us, 

And  in  front  your  Richelieu ; 
We  must  go  straightforth  at  them; 

There  is  nothing  else  to  do." 

And  then  the  brave  old  story  comes, 

Of  Schuyler  and  Valrennes, 
When  "Fight"  the  British  colonel  called, 

Encouraging  his  men, 
'  For  the  Protestant  Religion 

And  the  honor  of  our  King!"  — 
'Sir,  I  am  here  to  answer  you!" 

Valrennes  cried,  forthstepping. 

Were  not  those  brave  old  races  ? 

Well,  here  they  still  abide; 
And  yours  is  one  or  other, 

And  the  second's  at  your  side; 
So  when  you  hear  your  brother  say, 

"Some  loyal  deed  I'll  do," 
Like  old  Valrennes.  be  ready  with 

"I'm  here  to  answer  you!" 
WILLIAM  Douw  SCHUYLER-LIGHTHALL. 


IO2 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Peace  was  declared  in  1697,  but  hostilities  be 
gan  again  five  years  later,  and  early  in  1704 
Vaudreuil,  governor  of  Canada,  dispatched  a 
force  of  three  hundred,  under  Hertel  de  Rouville, 
against  Deerfield,  on  the  northwestern  frontier 
of  Massachusetts.  They  reached  their  destination 
a  little  before  daylight  of  February  29,  and ,  find 
ing  the  sentinels  asleep  and  the  snow  drifted  over 
the  palisades,  rushed  the  place,  and  carried  it, 
with  the  exception  of  one  block-house,  which  held 
out  successfully. 


THE  SACK  OF  DEERFIELD 

[February  29,  1704] 

OF  the  onset,  fear-inspiring,  and  the  firing 

and  the  pillage 
Of  our  village,  when  De  Rouville  with  his 

forces  on  us  fell, 
When,  ere  dawning  of  the  morning,  with  no 

death-portending  warning, 
With  no  token  shown  or  spoken,  came  the 
foeman,  hear  me  tell. 

High  against  the  palisadoes,  on  the  meadows, 

banks,  and  hill-sides. 

At  the  rill-sides,  over  fences,  lay  the  linger 
ing  winter  snow; 
And  so  high  by  tempest  rifted,  at  our  pickets 

it  was  drifted, 

That  its   frozen   crust   was   chosen   as   a 
bridge  to  bear  the  foe. 

We  had  set  at  night  a  sentry,  lest  an  entry, 

while  the  sombre 

Heavy  slumber  was  upon  us,  by  the  French 
man  should  be  made; 
But  the  faithless  knave  we  posted,  though  of 

wakefulness  he  boasted, 
'Stead  of  keeping  watch  was  sleeping,  and 
his  solemn  trust  betrayed. 

Than  our  slumber  none  profounder;    never 

sounder  fell  on  sleeper, 
Never  deeper  sleep  its  shadow  cast  on  dull 

and  listless  frames; 
But  it  fled  before  the  crashing  of  the  portals, 

and  the  flashing. 

And  the  soaring,  and  the  roaring,  and  the 
crackling  of  the  flames. 

Fell  the  shining  hatchets  quickly  'mid  the 

thickly  crowded  women, 
Growing  dim  in  crimson  currents  from  the 
pulses  of  the  brain ; 


Rained  the  balls  from  firelocks  deadly,  till  the 

melted  snow  ran  redly 
With  the  glowing  torrent  flowing  from  the 
bodies  of  the  slain. 

I,   from   pleasant  dreams   awaking   at   the 

breaking  of  my  casement, 
With  amazement  saw  the  foemen  enter 

quickly  where  I  lay; 
Heard  my  wife  and  children's  screaming,  as 

the  hatchets  woke  their  dreaming, 
Heard  their  groaning  and  their  moaning  as 
their  spirits  passed  away. 

'T  was  in  vain  I  struggled  madly  as  the  sadly 

sounding  pleading 
Of  my  bleeding,  dying  darlings  fell  upon 

my  tortured  ears; 
'T  was  in  vain  I  wrestled,  raging,  fight  against 

their  numbers  waging, 
Crowding  round  me  there  they  bound  me, 
while  my  manhood  sank  in  tears. 

At  the  spot  to  which  they  bore  me,  no  one  o'er 

me  watched  or  warded; 
There  unguarded,  bound  and  shivering,  on 

the  snow  I  lay  alone; 
Watching    by   the    firelight    ruddy,   as   the 

butchers  dark  and  bloody, 
Slew  the  nearest  friends  and  dearest  to  my 
memory  ever  known. 

And  it  seemed,  as  rose  the  roaring  blaze, 

up  soaring,  redly  streaming 
O'er  the  gleaming  snow  around  me  through 

the  shadows  of  the  night, 
That  the  figures  flitting  fastly  were  the  fiends 

at  revels  ghastly, 

Madly  urging  on  the  surging,  seething  bil 
lows  of  the  fight. 

Suddenly  my  gloom  was  lightened,  hope  was 

heightened,  though  the  shrieking, 
Malice-wreaking,  ruthless  wretches  death 

were  scattering  to  and  fro; 
For  a  knife  lay  there  —  I  spied  it,  and  a  toma 
hawk  beside  it 

Glittering   brightly,    buried    lightly,    keen 
edge  upward,  in  the  snow. 

Naught  knew  I  how  came  they  thither,  nor 

from  whither;   naught  to  me  then 
If  the  heathen  dark,  my  captors,  dropped 
those  weapons  there  or  no; 


THE  SACK  OF   DEERFIELD 


103 


Quickly  drawn  o'er  axe-edge  lightly,  cords 

were  cut  that  held  me  tightly, 
Then,  with  engines  of  my  vengeance  in  my 
hands,  I  sought  the  foe. 

Oh,   what  anger  dark,   consuming,   fearful, 

glooming,  looming  horrid, 
Lit  my  forehead,  draped  my  figure,  leapt 

with  fury  from  my  glance; 
'Midst  the  foemen  rushing  frantic,  to  their 

sight  I  seemed  gigantic, 
Like  the  motion  of  the  ocean,  like  a  tempest 
my  advance. 

Stoutest  of  them  all,  one  savage  left  the  ravage 

round  and  faced  me; 
Fury  braced  me,  for  I  knew  him  —  he  my 

pleading  wife  had  slain. 
Huge  he  was,  and  brave  and  brawny,  but  I 

met  the  slayer  tawny, 
And   with   rigorous   blow,   and   vigorous, 

clove  his  tufted  skull  in  twain  — 
Madly  dashing  down  the  crashing  bloody 

hatchet  in  his  brain. 

As  I  brained  him  rose  their  calling,  "Lo! 

appalling  from  yon  meadow 
The  Monedo  of  the  white  man  comes  with 

vengeance  in  his  train!" 
As  they  fled,  my  blows  Titanic  falling  fast 

increased  their  panic, 
Till  their  shattered  forces  scattered  widely 
o'er  the  snowy  plain. 

Stern  De  Rouville  then  their  error,  born  of 

terror,  soon  dispersing, 
Loudly  cursing  them  for  folly,  roused  their 

pride  with  words  of  scorn; 
Peering   cautiously  they  knew  me,  then  by 

numbers  overthrew  me; 
Fettered  surely,  bound  securely,  there  again 
I  lay  forlorn. 

Well  I  knew  their  purpose  horrid,  on  each 

forehead  it  was  written  — 
Pride  was  smitten  that  their  bravest  had 

retreated  at  my  ire; 
For  the  rest  the  captive's  durance,  but  for  me 

there  was  assurance 

Of  the  tortures  known  to  martyrs  —  of  the 
terrible  death  by  fire. 

Then  I  felt,  though  horror-stricken,  pulses 

quicken  as  the  swarthy 
Savage,  or  the  savage  Frenchman,  fiercest 
of  the  cruel  band, 


Darted  in  and  out  the  shadows,  through  the 

shivered  palisadoes, 

Death-blows  dealing  with  unfeeling  heart 
and  never-sparing  hand. 

Soon  the  sense  of  horror  left  me,  and  bereft 

me  of  all  feeling; 

Soon,  revealing  all  my  early  golden  mo 
ments,  memory  came; 
Showing  how,  when  young  and  sprightly,  with 

a  footstep  falling  lightly, 
I  had  pondered  as  I  wandered  on  the  maid 
I  loved  to  name. 

Her,  so  young,  so  pure,  so  dove-like,  that  the 

love-like  angels  whom  a 
Sweet  aroma  circles  ever  wheresoe'er  they 

move  their  wings, 
Felt  with  her  the  air  grow  sweeter,  felt  with 

her  their  joy  completer, 
Felt  their  gladness  swell  to  madness,  silent 
grow  their  silver  strings. 

Then  I  heard  her  voice's  murmur  breathing 

summer,  while  my  spirit 
Leaned  to  hear  it  and  to  drink  it  like  a 

draught  of  pleasant  wine; 
Felt  her  head  upon  my  shoulder  drooping  as 

my  love  I  told  her; 

Felt  the  utterly  pleased  flutter  of  her  heart 
respond  to  mine 

Then  I  saw  our  darlings  clearly  that  more 

nearly  linked  our  gladness; 
Saw  our  sadness  as  a  lost  one  sank  from 

pain  to  happy  rest; 
Mingled  tears  with  hers  and  chid  her,  bade 

her  by  our  love  consider 
How  our  dearest  now  was  nearest  to  the 
blessed  Master's  breast. 

I  had  lost  that  wife  so  cherished,  who  had 

perished,  passed  from  being, 
In  my  seeing  —  I,  unable  to  protect  her  or 

defend ; 
At  that  thought  dispersed  those  fancies,  born 

of  woe-begotten  trances, 
While   unto  me  came  the  gloomy  present 
hour  my  heart  to  rend. 

For  I   heard   the  firelocks    ringing   fiercely 

flinging  forth  the  whirring, 
Blood-preferring  leaden  bullets  from  a  gar 
risoned  abode; 


IO4 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


There  it  stood  so  grim  and  lonely,  speaking 

of  its  tenants  only, 

When  the  furious  leaden  couriers  from  its 
loopholes  fastly  rode. 

And  the  seven  who  kept  it  stoutly,  though 

devoutly  triumph  praying, 
Ceased  not  slaying,  trusting  somewhat  to 

their  firelocks  and  their  wives; 
For  while  they  the  house  were  holding,  balls 

the  wives  were  quickly  moulding  — 
Neither  fearful,  wild,  nor  tearful,  toiling 
earnest  for  their  lives. 

Onward  rushed  each  dusky  leaguer,  hot  and 

eager,  but  the  seven 
Rained  the  levin  from  their  firelocks  as  the 

Pagans  forward  pressed; 
Melting  at  that  murderous  firing,  back  that 

baffled  foe  retiring, 

Left  there  lying,  dead  or  dying,  ten,  their 
bravest  and  their  best. 

Rose  the  red  sun,  straightly  throwing  from 

his  glowing  disk  his  brightness 
On  the  whiteness  of  the  snowdrifts  and  the 

ruins  of  the  town  — 
On  those  houses  well  defended,  where  the  foe 

in  vain  expended 

Ball  and  powder,  standing  prouder,  smoke- 
begrimed  and  scarred  and  brown. 

Not  for  us  those  rays  shone  fairly,  tinting 

rarely  dawning  early 
With  the  pearly  light  and  glistering  of  the 

March's  snowy  morn; 
Some  were  wounded,  some  were  weary,  some 

were  sullen,  all  were  dreary, 
As  the  sorrow  of  that  morrow  shed  its  cloud 
of  woe  forlorn. 

Then  we  heard  De  Rouville's  orders,  "To  the 

borders!"  and  the  dismal. 
Dark  abysmal  fate  before  us  opened  widely 

as  he  spoke; 
But  we   heard   a   shout  in   distance  —  into 

fluttering  existence, 

Brief  but  splendid,  quickly  ended,  at  the 
sound  our  hopes  awoke. 

'T  was  our  kinsmen  armed  and  ready,  sweep 
ing  steady  to  the  nor'ward. 
Pressing  forward  fleet  and  fearless,  though 
in  scanty  force  they  came  — 


Cried  De  Rouville,  grimly  speaking,  "Is't  our 

captives  you  are  seeking? 
Well,  with  iron  we  environ  them,  and  wall 
them  round  with  flame. 

"  With  the  toil  of  blood  we  won  them,  we've 

undone  them  with  our  bravery; 
Off  to  slavery,  then,  we  carry  them  or  leave 

them  lifeless  here. 
Foul  my  shame  so  far  to  wander,  and  my 

soldiers'  blood  to  squander 
'Mid  the  slaughter  free  as  water,  should  our 
prey  escape  us  clear. 

"Off,  ye  scum  of  peasants  Saxon,  and  your 

backs  on  Frenchmen  turning, 
To  our  burning,  dauntless  courage  proper 

tribute  promptly  pay; 
Do  you  come  to  seize  and  beat  us  ?  Are  you 

here  to  slay  and  eat  us? 
If  your  meat  be  Gaul  and  Mohawk,  we  will 
starve  you  out  to-day." 

How  my  spirit  raged  to  hear  him,  standing 

near  him  bound  and  helpless! 
Never  whelpless  tigress  fiercer  howled  at 

slayer  of  her  young, 

When  secure  behind  his  engines,  he  has  baf 
fled  her  of  vengeance, 
Than  did  I  there,  forced  to  lie  there  while 
his  bitter  taunts  he  flung. 

For  I  heard  each  leaden  missile  whirr  and 

whistle  from  the  trusty 
Firelock  rusty,  brought  there  after  long 
time  absence  from  the  strife, 
And  was  forced  to  stand  in  quiet,  with  my 

warm  blood  running  riot, 
W7hen  for  power  to  give  an  hour  to  battle 
I  had  bartered  life. 

All  in  vain  they  thus  had  striven ;  backward 

driven,  beat  and  broken, 
Leaving  token  of  their  coming  in  the  dead 

around  the  dell, 
They   retreated  —  well   it   served   us !    their 

retreat  from  death  preserved  us, 
Though  the  order  for  our  murder  from  the 
dark  De  Rouville  fell. 

As  we  left  our  homes  in  ashes,  through  the 

lashes  of  the  sternest 

Welled  the  earnest  tears  of  anguish  for  the 
dear  ones  passed  away; 


PENTUCKET 


Sick  at  heart  and  heavily  loaded,  though  with 

cruel  blows  they  goaded, 
Sorely  cumbered,  miles  we  numbered  four 
alone  that  weary  day. 

They  were  tired  themselves  of  tramping,  for 

encamping  they  were  ready, 
Ere  the  steady  twilight  newer  pallor  threw 

upon  the  snow; 
So  they  built  them  huts  of  branches,  in  the 

snow  they  scooped  out  trenches, 
Heaped  up  firing,  then,  retiring,  let  us  sleep 
our  sleep  of  woe. 

By  the  wrist  —  and  by  no  light  hand  —  to  the 

right  hand  of  a  painted, 
Murder-tainted,  loathsome  Pagan,  with  a 

jeer,  I  soon  was  tied; 
And  the  one  to  whom  they  bound  me,  "mid  the 

scoffs  of  those  around  me, 
Bowing  to  me,  mocking,  drew  me  down 
to  slumber  at  his  side. 

As  for  me,  be  sure  I  slept  not :  slumber  crept 

not  on  my  senses; 

Less  intense  is  lover's  musing  than  a  cap 
tive's  bent  on  ways 
To  escape  from  fearful  thralling,  and  a  death 

by  fire  appalling; 

So,    unsleeping,    I    was    keeping    on    the 
Northern  Star  my  gaze. 

There  I  lay  —  no  muscle  stirring,  mind  un 
erring,  thought  unswerving, 
Body  nerving,  till  a  death-like,  breathless 

slumber  fell  around; 
Then  my  right  hand  cautious  stealing,  o'er 

my  bed-mate's  person  feeling, 
Till  each  finger  stooped  to  linger  on  the  belt 
his  waist  that  bound. 

*T  was    his    knife  —  the    handle    clasping, 

firmly  grasping,  forth  I  drew  it, 
Clinging  to  it  firm,  but  softly,  with  a  more 

than  robber's  art; 
As  I  drove  it  to  its  utter  length  of  blade,  I 

heard  the  flutter 

Of    a    snow-bird  —  ah !    't  was   no    bird ! 
't  was  the  flutter  of  my  heart. 

Then  I  cut  the  cord  that  bound  me,  peered 

around  me,  rose  uprightly, 
Stepped  as  lightly  as  a  lover  on  his  blessed 
bridal  day; 


Swiftly  as  my  need   inclined  me,  kept  the 

bright  North  Star  behind  me, 
And,  ere  dawning  of  the  morning,  I  was 
twenty  miles  away. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Under  French  officers  and  priests,  the  war  con 
tinued  to  be  conducted  with  a  cruelty  as  aimless 
as  it  was  brutal.  Isolated  hamlets  were  burned, 
and  their  inhabitants  tortured  or  taken  prisoners, 
only,  for  the  most  part,  to  be  butchered  on  the 
way  to  Canada.  On  August  29,  1708,  a  party  of 
French  and  Indians,  under  De  Chaillons  and  the 
infamous  De  Rouville,  surprised  the  town  of 
Haverhill.  Rushing  upon  it,  as  their  custom  was, 
just  before  daylight,  they  fired  several  houses, 
plundered  others,  and  killed  some  thirty  or  forty 
of  the  inhabitants.  The  townspeople  rallied,  and 
after  an  hour's  fighting  drove  away  the  assailants, 
killing  nearly  thirty,  among  them  De  Rouville 
himself. 

PENTUCKET 

[August  29,  1708] 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill. 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near. 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough. 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow; 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay. 


io6 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


—  So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall. 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate! 

Hours  passed  away.   By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
No  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 

Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ? 

Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 

No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glowed, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear; 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock; 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men,  — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain. 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame, 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  scalp-knives  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard,  nor  gunshot  there; 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-stroke  broke, 


And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare; 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard ; 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Though  the  Peace  of  Utrecht  (1714)  closed  the 
war,  desultory  raids  continued.  In  April,  1725, 
John  Lovewell,  of  Dunstable,  with  forty-six  men, 
marched  against  the  Indian  town  of  Pigwacket, 
or  Pequawket  (now  Fryeburg).  On  the  morning 
of  May  8  they  were  suddenly  attacked  by  a  large 
force  of  Indians  who  had  formed  an  ambuscade. 
Twelve  men  fell  at  the  first  fire,  among  them 
Lovewell  himself.  The  survivors  fought  against 
heavy  odds  until  sunset,  when  the  Indians  drew 
off  without  having  been  able  to  scalp  the  dead. 
It  was  this  battle,  in  its  day  "as  famous  in  New 
England  as  was  Chevy  Chase  on  the  Scottish 
border,"  which  inspired  the  earliest  military 
ballad,  still  extant,  composed  in  America.  Its 
author  is  unknown,  but  it  was  for  many  years 
"  the  best  beloved  song  in  all  New  England." 

LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT 

[May  8,  1725] 

OF  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  I  purpose  now 

to  sing, 
How  valiantly  he  served  his  country  and  his 

King; 
He  and   his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the 

woods  full  wide, 
And   hardships   they   endured   to   quell   the 

Indian's  pride. 

'Twas  nigh  unto  Pigwacket,  on  the  eighth 

day  of  May, 
They  spied  a  rebel  Indian  soon  after  break  of 

day; 
He  on  a  bank  was  walking,  upon  a  neck  of 

land. 
Which  leads  into  a  pond  as  we're  made  to 

understand. 

Our  men  resolv'd  to  have  him,  and  travell'd 

two  miles  round, 
Until  they  met  the  Indian,  who  boldly  stood 

his  ground ; 
Then   spake   up  Captain   Lovewell,  "Take 

you  good  heed,"  says  he, 
"This  rogue  is  to  decoy  us,  I  very  plainly  see. 


LOVEWELL'S    FIGHT 


107 


"The  Indians  lie  in  ambush,  in  some  place 

nigh  at  hand, 
In  order  to  surround  us  upon  this  neck  of 

land; 
Therefore  we'll  march  in  order,  and  each  man 

leave  his  pack 
That  we  may  briskly  fight  them,  when  they 

make  their  attack." 

They  came  unto  this  Indian,  who  did  them 
thus  defy, 

As  soon  as  they  came  nigh  him,  two  guns  he 
did  let  fly, 

Which  wounded  Captain  Lovewell,  and  like 
wise  one  man  more, 

But  when  this  rogue  was  running,  they  laid  him 
in  his  gore. 

Then  having  scalp'd  the  Indian,  they  went 

back  to  the  spot 
Where  they  had  laid  their  packs  down,  but 

there  they  found  them  not, 
For  the  Indians  having  spy'd  them,  when  they 

them  down  did  lay, 
Did  seize  them  for  their  plunder,  and  carry 

them  away. 

These  rebels  lay  in  ambush,  this  very  place 

hard  by, 
So  that  an  English  soldier  did  one  of  them 

espy, 
And  cried  out,  "Here's  an  Indian,"  with  that 

they  started  out, 
As  fiercely  as  old  lions,  and  hideously  did 

shout. 

With  that  our  valiant  English  all  gave  a  loud 

huzza, 
To  show  the  rebel  Indians  they  fear'd  them 

not  a  straw: 
So  now  the  fight  began,  and  as  fiercely  as 

could  be, 
The  Indians  ran  up  to  them,  but  soon  were 

forced  to  flee. 

Then  spake  up  Captain  Lovewell,  when  first 

the  fight  began : 
"Fight  on,  my  vnliant  heroes!  you  see  they 

fall  like  rain." 
For  as  we  are  inform'd,  the  Indians  were  so 

thick 
A  man  could  scarcely  fire  a  gun  and  not  some 

of  them  hit. 


Then  did  the  rebels  try  their  best  our  soldiers 

to  surround, 
But  they  could  not  accomplish  it,  because 

there  was  a  pond, 
To  which  our  men  retreated,  and  covered  all 

the  rear, 
The  rogues  were  forc'd  to  face  them,  altho' 

they  skulked  for  fear. 

Two  logs  there  were  behind  them  that  close 

together  lay, 
Without  being  discovered,   they  could   not 

get  away; 
Therefore  our  valiant  English  they  travell'd 

in  a  row, 
And  at  a  handsome  distance,  as  they  were 

wont  to  go. 

'T  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  first 
the  fight  begun, 

And  fiercely  did  continue  until  the  setting 
sun; 

Excepting  that  the  Indians  some  hours  be 
fore  't  was  night 

Drew  off  into  the  bushes  and  ceas'd  awhile 
to  fight, 

But  soon  again  returned,  in  fierce  and  furious 

mood. 
Shouting  as  in  the  morning,  but  yet  not  half  so 

loud; 
For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they 

fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did 

get  home  well. 

And  that  our  valiant  English  till  midnight 

there  did  stay, 
To  see  whether  the  rebels  would  have  another 

fray ; 
But  they  no  more  returning,  they  made  off 

towards  their  home, 
And  brought  away  their  wounded  as  far  as 

they  could  come. 

Of  all  our  valiant  English  there  were  but 

thirty-four. 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians  there  were  about 

fourscore. 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home 

return, 
The  rest  were  kill'd  and  wounded,  for  which 

we  all  must  mourn. 


io8 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Our  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  among  them 

there  did  die, 
They  killed  Lieutenant  Robbins,  and  wounded 

good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplain;    he  many 

Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalp'd  when  bullets 

round  him  flew. 

Young  Fullam,  too,  I'll  mention,  because  he 

fought  so  well, 

Endeavoring  to  save  a  man,  a  sacrifice  he  fell : 
But  yet  our  valiant  Englishmen  in  fight  were 

ne'er  dismay 'd, 
But  still  they  kept  their  motion,  and  Wymans 

Captain  made, 

Who  shot  the  old  chief  Paugus,  which  did  the 

foe  defeat. 
Then  set  his  men  in  order,  and  brought  off 

the  retreat; 
And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in 

the  way, 
They  safe  arriv'd  at  Dunstable,  the  thirteenth 

day  of  May. 


The  story  of  Lovewell's  fight  is  told  in  another 
ballad  printed  in  Farmer  and  Moore's  Historical 
Collections  in  1824.  It  is  an  excellent  example  of 
ballad  literature,  describing  the  struggle  in  great 
detail  and  with  unusual  accuracy. 


LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT 

[May  8,  1725] 

WHAT  time  the  noble  Lovewell  came, 
With  fifty  men  from  Dunstable, 

The  cruel  Pequa'tt  tribe  to  tame, 
With  arms  and  bloodshed  terrible, 

Then  did  the  crimson  streams,  that  flowed, 
Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash 
Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook. 

With  Lovewell  brave,  John  Harwood  came; 

From  wife  and  babes  't  was  hard  to  part, 
Young  Harwood  took  her  by  the  hand, 

And  bound  the  weeper  to  his  heart. 

Repress  that  tear,  my  Mary,  dear, 
Said  Harwood  to  his  loving  wife, 

It  tries  me  hard  to  leave  thee  here, 
And  seek  in  distant  woods  the  strife. 


When  gone,  my  Mary,  think  of  me, 
And  pray  to  God,  that  I  may  be, 

Such  as  one  ought  that  lives  for  thee, 
And  come  at  last  in  victory. 

Thus  left  young  Harwood  babe  and  wife, 
With  accent  wild  she  bade  adieu; 

It  grieved  those  lovers  much  to  part, 
So  fond  and  fair,  so  kind  and  true. 

Seth  Wyman,  who  in  Woburn  lived 
(A  marksman  he  of  courage  true), 

Shot  the  first  Indian  whom  they  saw, 
Sheer  through  his  heart  the  bullet  flew. 

The  savage  had  been  seeking  game, 
Two  guns  and  eke  a  knife  he  bore. 

And  two  black  ducks  were  in  his  hand, 
He  shrieked,  and  fell,  to  rise  no  more. 

Anon,  there  eighty  Indians  rose. 

Who'd  hid  themselves  in  ambush  dread; 

Their  knives  they   shook,   their  guns   they 

aimed, 
The  famous  Paugus  at  their  head. 

Good  heavens !  they  dance  the  Powow  dance, 
What  horrid  yells  the  forest  fill? 

The  grim  bear  crouches  in  his  den, 
The  eagle  seeks  the  distant  hill. 

What  means  this  dance,  this  Powow  dance  ? 

Stern  Wyman  said;   with  wonderous  art, 
He  crept  full  near,  his  rifle  aimed. 

And  shot  the  leader  through  the  heart. 

John  Lovewell,  captain  of  the  band, 

His  sword  he  waved,  that  glittered  bright. 

For  the  last  time  he  cheered  his  men, 
And  led  them  onward  to  the  fight. 

Fight  on,  fight  on,  brave  Lovewell  said, 
Fight  on,  while  heaven  shall  give  you  breath 

An  Indian  ball  then  pierced  him  through, 
And  Lovewell  closed  his  eyes  in  death. 

John  Harwood  died  all  bathed  in  blood, 
When  he  had  fought,  till  set  of  day; 

And  many  more  we  may  not  name, 
Fell  in  that  bloody  battle  fray. 

When  news  did  come  to  Harwood's  wife, 
That  he  with  Ix>vewell  fought  and  died, 

Far  in  the  wilds  had  given  his  life, 
Nor  more  would  in  their  home  abide, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LOVELL'S  POND 


109 


Such  grief  did  seize  upon  her  mind, 
Such  sorrow  filled  her  faithful  breast; 

On  earth,  she  ne'er  found  peace  again, 
But  followed  Harwood  to  his  rest. 

*T  was  Paugus  led  the  Pequa'tt  tribe;  — 
As  runs  the  Fox,  would  Paugus  run; 

As  howls  the  wild  wolf,  would  he  howl, 
A  large  bear  skin  had  Paugus  on. 

But  Chamberlain,  of  Dunstable 

(One  whom  a  savage  ne'er  shall  slay), 

Met  Paugus  by  the  water  side, 
And  shot  him  dead  upon  that  day. 

Good  heavens!   Is  this  a  time  for  pray'r? 

Is  this  a  time  to  worship  God  ? 
When  LovewelFs  men  are  dying  fast, 

And  Paugus'  tribe  hath  felt  the  rod  ? 

The  Chaplain's  name  was  Jonathan  Frye; 

In  Andover  his  father  dwelt, 
And  oft  with  Lovewell's  men  he'd  prayed, 

Before  the  mortal  wound  he  felt. 

A  man  was  he  of  comely  form, 

Polished  and  brave,  well  learnt  and  kind; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left, 

Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 

Ah!   now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts,  , 

His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise; 

And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

He  prays  kind  heaven  to  grant  success, 
Brave  Lovewell's  men  to  guide  and  bless, 

And  when  they've  shed  their  heart  blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness. 

Come  hither,  Farwell,  said  young  Frye, 
You  see  that  I'm  about  to  die; 

Now  for  the  love  I  bear  to  you, 
When  cold  in  death  my  bones  shall  lie ; 

Go  thou  and  see  my  parents  dear, 
And  tell  them  you  stood  by  me  here; 

Console  them  when  they  cry,  Alas! 
And  wipe  away  the  falling  tear. 

Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 
His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 

And  said,  brave  Chaplain,  I  could  wish, 
That  heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you. 


The  Chaplain  on  kind  Farwell's  breast, 
Bloody  and  languishing  he  fell; 

Nor  after  this  said  more,  but  this, 
"I  love  thee,  soldier,  fare  thee  well." 

Ah!  many  a  wife  shall  rend  her  hair, 
And  many  a  child  cry,  "Wo  is  me!" 

When  messengers  the  news  shall  bear, 
Of  Lovewell's  dear  bought  victory. 

With  footsteps  slow  shall  travellers  go, 
Where  Lovewell's  pond  shines  clear  and 
bright, 

And  mark  the  place,  where  those  are  laid, 
Who  fell  in  Lovewell's  bloody  fight. 

Old  men  shall  shake  their  heads,  and  say, 

Sad  was  the  hour  and  terrible, 
When  Lovewell  brave  'gainst  Paugus  went, 

With  fifty  men  from  Dunstable. 

The  fight  near  Lovewell'a  Pond  was  tho 
ground  of  still  another  case  of  literary  priority. 
Nearly  a  hundred  years  after  its  occurrence,  on 
November  17,  1820,  the  Portland  Gazette  printed 
the  first  poetical  venture  of  a  lad  of  thirteen  years. 
It  bore  the  title  of  "  The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond." 
Its  author  was  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOVELL'S  POND 

[May  8,  1725] 

COLD,  cold  is  the  north  wind  and  rude  is  the 

blast 
That  sweeps  like  a  hurricane  loudly  and 

fast, 
As  it  moans  through  the  tall  waving  pines 

lone  and  drear, 
Sighs  a  requiem  sad  o'er  the  warrior's  bier. 

The  war-whoop  is  still,  and  the  savage's  yell 
Has  sunk  into  silence  along  the  wild  dell; 
The  din  of  the  battle,  the  tumult,  is  o'er, 
And  the  war-clarion's  voice  is  now  heard  no 
more. 

The  warriors  that  fought  for  their  country, 

and  bled, 
Have  sunk  to  their  rest;   the  damp  earth  is 

their  bed ; 
No  stone  tells  the  place  where  their  ashes 

repose, 
Nor  points  out  the  spot  from  the  graves  of 

their  foes. 


no 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


They  died   in   their  glory,   surrounded    by 

fame, 
And  Victory's  loud  trump  their  death  did 

proclaim ; 
They  are  dead ;  but  they  live  in  each  Patriot's 

breast, 
And  their  names  are  engraven  on  honor's 

bright  crest. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  English  gained  a  notable  victory  in  the 
summer  of  1745  when  they  captured  the  formida 
ble  fortress  of  Louisburg,  which  had  been  built 
by  the  French  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Cape  Breton 
Island.  News  of  the  victory  created  the  greatest 
joy  throughout  the  colonies. 

LOUISBURG 

[June  17.  1745J 

NEPTUNE  and  Mars  in  Council  sate 

To  humble  France's  pride, 
Whose  vain  unbridled  insolence 

All  other  Powers  defied. 

The  gods  having  sat  in  deep  debate 

Upon  the  puzzling  theme, 
Broke  up  perplexed  and  both  agreed 

Shirley  should  form  the  scheme. 

Shirley,  with  Britain's  glory  fired, 
Heaven's  favoring  smile  implored: 

"Let  Louisburg  return,"  —  he  said, 
"Unto  its  ancient  Lord." 

At  once  the  Camp  and  Fleet  were  filled 

With  Britain's  loyal  sons,    » 
Whose  hearts  are  filled  with  generous  strife 

T'  avenge  their  Country's  wrongs. 

With  Liberty  their  breasts  are  filled, 

Fair  Liberty's  their  shield; 
'T  is  Liberty  their  banner  waves 

And  hovers  o'er  their  field. 

Louis !  —  behold  the  unequal  strife, 

Thy  slaves  in  walls  immured ! 
While  George's  sons  laugh  at  those  walls  — 

Of  victory  assured. 

One  key  to  your  oppressive  pride 
Youi  Western  Dunkirk's  gone; 

So  Pepperell  and  Warren  bade 
And  what  they  bade  was  done! 


Forbear,  proud  Prince,  your  gasconades, 

Te  Deums  cease  to  sing,  — 
When  Britains  fight  the  Grand  Monarque 

Must  yield  to  Britain's  King. 
BOSTON,  December,  1745. 

Louis  XV  felt  the  loss  of  Louisburg  keenly, 
and  in  1746,  to  avenge  its  fall,  sent  a  strong  fleet, 
under  Admiral  D'Anville,  against  Boston.  The 
town  was  terror-stricken;  but  after  many  mis 
haps  the  fleet  was  finally  dispersed  by  a  great 
storm  off  Cape  Sable,  on  October  15,  1746,  and 
such  of  the  ships  as  lived  through  it  were  forced 
to  make  their  way  back  to  France. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET 

[October  15,  1746] 
MR.  THOMAS  PRINCE,  loquitur 

A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal:   "Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly:   "Let  us  pray! 

'  O  Lord !  we  would  not  advise ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
WTe  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 


THE   BRITISH  LYON  ROUSED 


in 


The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried:   "Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord!" 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook. 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord!   before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Peace  was  made  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  in  1748. 
but  it  was  really  only  a  truce.  England  and 
France  could  not  be  permanently  at  peace  until 
one  or  the  other  was  undisputed  master  of  the 
North  American  continent.  The  French  claimed 
all  the  country  west  of  the  Alleghanies  and  en 
forced  their  claims  by  building  a  string  of  forts, 
among  them  Fort  Duquesne  at  the  head  of  the 
Ohio.  At  last,  in  1755,  was  "  the  British  Lyon 
roused." 


THE  BRITISH  LYON  ROUSED 

[1755] 

HAIL,  great  Apollo!   guide  my  feeble  pen, 
To  rouse  the  august  lion  from  his  den, 
Exciting  vengeance  on  the  worst  of  men. 

Rouse,  British  Lion,  from  thy  soft  repose, 
And  take  revenge  upon  the  worst  of  foes, 
Who  try  to  ring  and  hawl  you  by  the  nose. 

They  always  did  thy  quiet  breast  annoy, 
Raising  rebellion  with  the  Rival  boy, 
Seeking  thy  faith  and  interest  to  destroy. 


Treaties  and  oaths  they  always  did  break 

thro', 
They  never  did  nor  wou'd  keep  faith  with 

you 
By  popes  and  priests  indulged  so  to  do. 

All  neighboring  powers  and  neutral  slanders 

by 

Look  on  our  cause  with  an  impartial  eye, 
And  see  their  falseness  and  their  perfidy. 

Their  grand  encroachments  on  us  ne'er  did 

cease, 

But  by  indulgence  mightily  increase, 
Killing  and  scalping  us  in  times  of  peace. 

They  buy  our  scalps  exciting  savage  clans, 
In  children's  blood  for  to  imbue  their  hands, 
Assisted  by  their  cruel  Gallic  bands. 

Britains,  strike  home,  strike  home  decisive 

blows 

Upon  the  heads  of  your  perfidious  foes, 
Who  always  truth  and  justice  did  oppose. 

Go  brave  the  ocean  with  your  war-like  ships, 
And  speak  your  terror  o'er  the  western  deeps, 
And  crush  the  squadrons  of  the  Gallic  fleets. 

Cleave  liquid  mountains  of  the  foaming  flood, 
And  tinge  the  billows  with  the  Gallic  blood, 
A  faithful  drubbing  to  their  future  good. 

Bury  their  squadrons  ill  in  watery  tombs; 
And  when  the  news  unto  Versailles  it  comes, 
Let  Lewis  swear  by  Gar  and  gnaw  his  thumbs. 

Oh !   ride  triumphant  o'er  the  Gallic  powers, 
And  conquer  all  these  cursed  foes  of  ours, 
And  sweep  the  ocean  with  your  iron  showers. 

While  all  the  tribes  in  Neptune's  spacious 

hall, 

Shall  stand  astonish'd  at  the  cannon  ball; 
To  see  such  hail-stones  down  among  them  fall. 

Some  of  their  tribes  perhaps  are  killed  dead, 
And  others  in  a  vast  amazement  fled, 
While  Neptune  stands  aghast  and  scratch's 
his  head. 

My  roving  muse  the  surface  reach  again, 
Search  every  part  of  the  Atlantic  plain, 
And  see  if  any  Gallics  yet  remaiu; 


112 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  if  they  do,  let  British  cannon  roar; 
And  let  thy  thunders  reach  the  western  shore. 
While  I  shall  strive  to  rouse  her  sons  once 

more/  STEPHEN  TILDEN. 


Active  hostilities  began  early  in  1755.  On  Feb 
ruary  20  General  Edward  Braddock  landed  at 
Hampton.  Va.,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  organize 
an  expedition  to  march  against  Fort  Duquesne. 
George  Washington,  who  had  already  had  some 
bitter  experience  with  the  French,  was  made  one 
of  his  aides-de-camp.  On  May  29  the  army,  with 
an  immense  wagon  train,  began  its  long  journey 
across  the  mountains. 

THE  SONG  OF  BRADDOCK'S  MEN 

[May  29,  1755] 

To  arms,  to  arms !  my  jolly  grenadiers ! 
Hark,  how  the  drums  do  roll  it  along! 
To  horse,  to  horse,  with  valiant  good  cheer; 
We'll  meet  our  proud  foe  before  it  is  long. 
Let  not  your  courage  fail  you; 

Be  valiant,  stout  and  bold; 
And  it  will  soon  avail  you, 
My  loyal  hearts  of  gold. 
Huzzah,  my  valiant  countrymen !  again  I  say 

huzzah ! 

'Tis  nobly  done,  —  the  day's  our  own, — 
huzzah,  huzzah! 

March  on,  march  on,  brave  Braddock  leads 

the  foremost; 

The  battle  is  begun  as  you  may  fairly  see. 

Stand  firm,  be  bold,  and  it  will  soon  be  over; 

We'll  soon  gain  the  field  from  our  proud 

enemy. 
A  squadron  now  appears,  my  boys; 

If  that  they  do  but  stand ! 
Boys,  never  fear,  be  sure  you  mind 

The  word  of  command ! 
Huzzah,  my  valiant  countrymen !  again  I  say 

huzzah ! 

'Tis   nobly  done,  —  the  day's   our  own, — 
huzzah,  huzzah! 

See  how,  see  how,  they  break  and  fly  before  us ! 
See  how  they  are  scattered  all  over  the 

plain ! 
Now,    now  —  now,    now   our   country   will 

adore  us! 
In  peace  and  in  triumph,  boys,  when  we 

return  again! 

Then  laurels  shall  our  glory  crown 
For  all  our  actions  told: 


The  hills  shall  echo  all  around, 

My  loyal  hearts  of  gold. 
Huzzah,  my  valiant  countrymen !  again  I  say 

huzzah ! 
'Tis  nobly  done,  —  the  day's  our  own, — 

huzzah,  huzzah! 


Braddock.  with  a  picked  force  of  about  twelve 
hundred  men,  reached  the  Monongahela  July  8 
in  excellent  order,  and,  on  the  following  morning, 
with  colors  flying  and  drums  beating,  marched 
against  the  fort.  The  French  garrison,  under 
Contrecoeur,  was  in  a  panic,  and  ready  for  flight, 
but  a  young  captain  of  regulars  named  Beaujeu 
with  difficulty  obtained  permission  to  take  out  a 
small  party,  mostly  Indians,  to  harass  the  ad 
vancing  column.  They  encountered  the  English 
about  seven  miles  from  the  fort,  marching  in  close 
order  along  a  narrow  road  which  the  pioneers 
had  made.  The  Indians  opened  fire,  spreading 
along  either  flank,  and  protected  by  the  under 
brush.  The  English,  crowded  together  in  the 
open  road,  could  not  see  their  enemies,  and  were 
thrown  into  confusion.  Braddock,  wild  with  rage, 
refused  to  permit  them  to  fight  in  Indian  fashion, 
but  beat  them  back  into  line  with  his  sword.  At 
last  a  bullet  struck  him  down,  and  his  troops  fled 
in  panic  from  the  field. 


BRADDOCK'S   FATE,   WITH   AN   IN 
CITEMENT  TO  REVENGE 

[July  9,  1755J 

COME  all  ye  sons  of  Brittany, 

Assist  my  muse  in  tragedy, 

And  mourn  brave  Braddock's  destiny, 

And  spend  a  mournful  day, 
Upon  Monongahela  fields, 
The  mighty 're  fallen  o'er  their  shields; 
And  British  blood  bedews  the  hills 

Of  western  Gilboa. 

July  the  ninth,  oh!  Fatal  Day, 
They  had  a  bold  and  bloody  fray, 
Our  host  was  smote  with  a  dismay; 

Some  basely  did  retire, 
And  left  brave  Braddock  in  the  field. 
Who  had  much  rather  die  than  yield, 
A  while  his  sword  he  bravely  wield 

In  clouds  of  smoke  and  fire. 

Some  time  he  bravely  stood  his  ground, 
A  thousand  foes  did  him  surround, 
Till  he  received  a  mortal  wound, 

Which  forc'd  him  to  retreat. 
He  dy'd  upon  the  thirteenth  day, 
As  he  was  home-ward  on  his  way; 


BRADDOCK'S   FATE 


Alas!   alas!   we  all  must  say, 
A  sore  and  sad  defeat. 

Now  to  his  grave  this  hero's  borne, 
While  savage  foes  triumph  and  scorn, 
And  drooping  banners  dress  his  urn, 

And  guard  him  to  his  tomb. 
Heralds  and  monarchs  of  the  dead, 
You  that  so  many  worms  have  fed, 
He's  coming  to  your  chilly  bed, 

Edge  close  and  give  him  room. 

HIS  EPITAPH 

Beneath  this  stone  brave  Braddock  lies, 
Who  always  hated  cowardice, 
But  fell  a  savage  sacrifice 

Amidst  his  Indian  foes. 
I  charge  you,  heroes,  of  the  ground, 
To  guard  his  dark  pavilion  round, 
And  keep  off  all  obtruding  sound, 

And  cherish  his  repose. 

Sleep,  sleep,  I  say,  brave  valiant  man, 
Bold  death,  at  last,  has  bid  thee  stand 
And  to  resign  thy  great  command, 

And  cancel  thy  commission. 
Altho'  thou  didst  not  much  incline 
Thy  post  and  honors  to  resign; 
Now  iron  slumber  doth  confine; 

None  envy's  thy  condition. 

A  SURVEY  OF  THE   FIELD  OF   BATTLE 

Return  my  muse  unto  the  field, 
See  what  a  prospect  it  doth  yield; 
Ingrateful  to  the  eyes  and  smell 

A  carnage  bath'd  in  gore, 
Lies  scalp'd  and  mangled  o'er  the  hills, 
While  sanguine  rivers  fill  the  dales, 
And  pale-fac'd  horror  spreads  the  fields, 

The  like  ne'er  here  before. 

And  must  these  sons  of  Brittany 
Be  clouded,  set  in  western  skies, 
And  fall  a  savage  sacrifice? 

Oh !  't  is  a  gloomy  hour ! 
My  blood  boils  high  in  every  vein, 
To  climb  the  mountains  of  .the  slain, 
And  break  the  iron  jaws  in  twain, 

Of  savage  Gallic  power. 

Our  children  with  their  mothers  die, 
While  they  aloud  for  mercy  cry; 
They  kill,  and  scalp  them  instantly, 


Then  fly  into  the  woods, 
And  make  a  mock  of  all  their  cries, 
And  bring  their  scalps  a  sacrifice 
To  their  infernal  deities, 

And  praise  their  demon  gods. 

Revenge,  revenge  the  harmless  blood 
Which  their  inhuman  dogs  have  shed 
In  every  frontier  neighborhood, 

For  near  these  hundred  years. 
Their  murdering  clan  in  ambush  lies, 
To  kill  and  scalp  them  by  surprize, 
And  free  from  tender  parents'  eyes 

Ten  hundred  thousand  tears. 

Their  sculking,  scalping,  murdering  tricks 

Have  so  enraged  old  sixty-six, 

With  legs  and  arms  like  withered  sticks, 

And  youthful  vigor  gone; 
That  if  he  lives  another  year, 
Complete  in  armor  he'll  appear. 
And  laugh  at  death  and  scoff  at  fear, 

To  right  his  country's  wrong. 

Let  young  and  old,  both  high  and  low, 
Arm  well  against  this  savage  foe, 
Who  all  around  inviron  us  so. 

The  sons  of  black  delusion. 
New  England's  sons  you  know  their  way, 
And  how  to  cross  them  in  their  play, 
And  drive  these  murdering  dogs  away, 

Unto  their  last  confusion. 

One  bold  effort,  oh,  let  us  make, 
And  at  one  blow  behead  the  snake, 
And  then  these  savage  powers  will  break, 

Which  long  have  us  oppress'd. 
And  this,  brave  soldiers,  will  we  do 
If  Heaven  and  George  shall  say  so  too; 
And  if  we  drive  the  matter  thro', 

The  land  will  be  at  rest. 

Come  every  soldier  charge  your  gun, 
And  let  your  task  be  killing  one; 
Take  aim  until  the  work  is  done; 

Don't  throw  away  your  fire, 
For  he  that  fires  without  an  aim, 
May  kill  his  friend  and  be  to  blame, 
And  in  the  end  come  off  with  shame, 

When  forced  to  retire. 

O  mother  land,  we  think  we're  sure, 
Sufficient  is  thy  marine  powers 
To  dissipate  all  eastern  showers: 
And  if  our  arms  be  blest, 


H4 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Thy  sons  in  North  America 
Will  drive  these  hell-born  dogs  away 
As  far  beyond  the  realms  of  day, 
As  east  is  from  the  west. 

Forbear  my  muse  thy  barbarous  song. 
Upon  this  theme  thou'st  dwelt  too  long, 
It  is  too  high  and  much  too  strong, 

The  learned  won't  allow. 
Much  honor  should  accrue  to  him 
Who  ne'er  was  at  their  Academ 
Come  blot  out  every  telesem; 

Get  home  unto  thy  plow. 

STEPHEN  TILDEN. 

Composed  August  20,  1755. 


NED  BRADDOCK 
[July  9.  1755J 

SAID  the  Sword  to  the  Ax,  'twixt  the  whacks 

and  the  hacks, 
"Who's   your   bold  Berserker,   cleaving  of 

tracks  ? 
Hewing  a  highway  through  greenwood  and 

glen, 

Foot-free  for  cattle  and  heart-free  for  men  ?" 
— "  Braddock   of   Fontenoy,   stubborn   and 

grim. 

Carving  a  cross  on  the  wilderness  rim ; 
In  his  own  doom  building  large  for  the  Lord, 
Steeple  and  State ! "  said  the  Ax  to  the  Sword. 

Said  the  Blade  to  the  Ax,  "And  shall  none  say 

him  Nay? 

Never  a  broadsword  to  bar  him  the  way? 
Never  a  bush  where  a  Huron  may  hide, 
Or  the  shot  of  a  Shawnee  spit  red  on  his  side  ?" 

—  Down  the  long  trail  from  the  Fort  to  the 

ford. 
Naked  and   streaked,   plunge  a  moccasin'd 

horde: 

Huron  and  Wyandot.  hot  for  the  bout ; 
Shawnee  and  Ottawa,  barring  him  out! 

Red'ning  the  ridge,  'twixt  a  gorge  and  a 

gorge, 

Bold  to  the  sky,  loom  the  ranks  of  St.  George; 
Braddock  of  Fontenoy,  belted  and  horsed. 
For  a  foe  to  be  struck  and  a  pass  to  be  forced. 

—  'Twixt  the  pit  and  the  crest,  'twixt  the 

rocks  and  the  grass, 

Where  the  bush  hides  the  foe,  and  the  foe 
holds  the  pass, 


Beaujeu  and  Pontiac,  striving  amain ; 
Huron  and  Wyandot,  jeering  the  slain! 

Beaujeu,  bon  camarade!  Beaujeu  the  Gay! 
Beaujeu  and  Death  cast  their  blades  in  the 

fray. 

Never  a  rifle  that  spared  when  they  spoke. 
Never  a  scalp-knife  that  balked  in  its  stroke. 
Till    the    red    hillocks    marked    where    the 

standards  had  danced. 
And  the  Grenadiers  gasped  where  their  sabres 

had  glanced. 

—  But  Braddock  raged  fierce  in  that  storm  by 

the  ford, 

And  railed  at  his  "curs"  with  the  flat  of  his 
sword ! 

Said  the  Sword  to  the  Ax,  "Where's  your 

Berserker  now  ? 
Lo !  his  bones  mark  a  path  for  a  countryman's 

cow. 
And  Beaujeu  the  Gay  ?  Give  him  place,  right 

or  wrong, 
In  your  tale  of  a  camp,  or  your  stave  of  a 

song." 

—  "  But  Braddock  of  Fontenoy,  stubborn  and 

grim, 
Who  but  he  carved  a  cross  on  the  wilderness 

rim? 

In  his  own  doom  building  large  for  the  Lord, 
Steeple  and  State!"  said  the  Ax  to  the  Sword. 
JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 


After  Braddock's  defeat,  the  Pennsylvania  and 
Virginia  frontiers  were  left,  for  a  time,  to  the 
ravages  of  the  Indians.  The  colonies  were  slow 
to  defend  themselves,  and  could  get  no  aid  what 
ever  from  England,  who  had  her  hands  full  else 
where. 


ODE   TO   THE   INHABITANTS   OF 
PENNSYLVANIA 

[September  30,  1756] 

STILL  shall  the  tyrant  scourge  of  Gaul 
With  wasteful  rage  resistless  fall 

On  Britain's  slumbering  race  ? 
Still  shall  she  wave  her  bloody  hand 
And  threatening  banners  o'er  this  land, 

To  Britain's  fell  disgrace? 

And  not  one  generous  chieftain  rise 
(Who  dares  the  frown  of  war  despise, 
And  treacherous  fear  disclaim) 


THE   EMBARKATION 


His  country's  ruin  to  oppose, 
To  hurl  destruction  on  her  foes, 
And  blast  their  rising  fame  ? 

In  Britain's  cause,  with  valor  fired, 
Braddock,  unhappy  chief!  expired, 

And  claim'd  a  nation's  tear; 
Nor  could  Oswego's  bulwarks  stand 
The  fury  of  a  savage  band, 

Though  Schuyler's  arm  was  there. 

Still  shall  this  motley,  murderous  crew 
Their  deep,  destructive  arts  pursue, 

And  general  horror  spread  ? 
No  —  see  Britannia's  genius  rise ! 
Swift  o'er  the  Atlantic  foam  she  flies 

And  lifts  her  laurell'd  head! 

Lo!  streaming  through  the  dear  blue  sky, 
Great  London's  awful  banners  fly, 

In  British  pomp  display'd ! 
Soon  shall  the  gallant  chief  advance; 
Before  him  shrink  the  sons  of  France, 

Confounded  and  dismay'd. 

Then  rise,  illustrious  Britons,  rise! 
Great  Freedom  calls,  pursue  her  voice, 

And  save  your  country's  shame! 
Let  every  hand  for  Britain  arm'd, 
And  every  breast  with  virtue  warm'd, 

Aspire  at  deathless  fame! 

But  chief,  let  Pennsylvania  wake, 
And  on  her  foes  let  terrors  shake, 

Their  gloomy  troops  defy; 
For,  lo !  her  smoking  farms  and  plains, 
Her  captured  youths,  and  murder'd  swains, 

For  vengeance  louder  cry. 

Why  should  we  seek  inglorious  rest, 
Or  sink,  with  thoughtless  ease  oppress'd, 

While  war  insults  so  near  ? 
While  ruthless,  fierce,  athirst  for  blood, 
Bellona's  sons,  a  desperate  brood! 

In  furious  bands  appear.' 

Rouse,  rouse  at  once,  and  boldly  chase 
From  their  deep  haunts,  the  savage  race, 

Till  they  confess  you  men. 
Let  other  Armstrongs  grace  the  field ! 
Let  other  slaves  before  them  yield, 

And  tremble  round  Duquesne. 

And  thou,  our  chief,  and  martial  guide, 
Of  worth  approved,  of  valor  tried 


In  many  a  hard  campaign, 
O  Denny,  warmed  with  British  fire, 
Our  inexperienced  troops  inspire, 

And  conquest's  laurels  gain! 
Pennsylvania  Gazette,  September  30,  1756. 


Meanwhile  things  -were  in  a  troubled  condition 
in  Acadia,  where  the  so-called  "  French  neutrals" 
were  discovered  to  be  in  arms  against  England. 
"Every  resource  of  patience  and  persuasion" 
had  been  used  to  secure  their  loyalty  to  Great 
Britain,  but  in  vain.  At  last  it  was  decided  to 
disperse  them  among  the  southern  provinces, 
and  the  deportation  began  in  October.  At  the 
end  of  two  months,  about  six  thousand  of  the 
Acadians  had  been  sent  away,  and  their  homes 
destroyed. 

THE   EMBARKATION 

From  "  Evangeline" 
[October  8,  1755] 

FOUR  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set;  and 

now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids 

of  the  farm-house. 
Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and 

mournful  procession, 
Came   from   the   neighboring   hamlets   and 

farms  the  Acadian  women, 
Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household 

goods  to  the  sea-shore, 
Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more 

on  their  dwellings, 
Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding 

road  and  the  woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and 

urged  on  the  oxen, 
While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some 

fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hur 
ried  ;  and  there  on  the  sea-beach 

Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of 
the  peasants. 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships 
did  the  boats  ply; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down 
from  the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near 
to  his  setting, 

Echoed  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of 
drums  from  the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged. 
On  a  sudden  the  church-doors 


n6 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and 
marching  in  gloomy  procession 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient, 
Acadian  farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their 
homes  and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are 
weary  and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian 
peasants  descended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid 
their  wives  and  their  daughters. 

Foremost  the  young  men  came;  and,  raising 
together  their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the  Catho 
lic  Missions :  — 

"Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour!  O  inexhausti 
ble  fountain! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  sub 
mission  and  patience!" 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the 
women  that  stood  by  the  wayside 

Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in 
the  sunshine  above  them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of 
spirits  departed. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on 
that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult 

and  stir  of  embarking. 
Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats;  and  in  the 

confusion 
Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and 

mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 
Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with 

wildest  entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel 

carried, 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline 

stood  with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went 

down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around ;  and  in  haste 

the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of 

the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and 

the  slippery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household 

goods  and  the  wagons,  - 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a 

battle, 


All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels 
near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless 
Acadian  farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the 
bellowing  ocean, 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  peb 
bles,  and  leaving 

Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats 
of  the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  re 
turned  from  their  pastures; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of 
milk  from  their  udders; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well- 
known  bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 

Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and 
the  hand  of  the  milk-maid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets ;  from  the  church 
no  Angelus  sounded, 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed 
no  lights  from  the  windows. 


Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in 

autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and 

o'er  the  horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon 

the  mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers  and  piling 

huge  shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the 

roofs  of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  ships 

that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes 

of  flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn, 

like  the  quivering  hands  of  a  martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the 

burning  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once 

from  a  hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of 

flame  intermingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd 

on  the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud 

in  their  anguish, 
"We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the 

village  of  Grand-Pre!" 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in 

the  farm-yards, 


ON  THE   DEFEAT   AT  TICONDEROGA  OR   CARILONG     117 


Thinking  the  day  had  dawned;  and  anon  the 

rowing  of  cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking 

of  dogs  interrupted. 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles 

the  sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt 

the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by 

with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush 

to  the  river. 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night, 

as  the  herds  and  the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and 

madly  rushed  o'er  the  meadows. 

Lo !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a 

vast  congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its 

roar  with  the  dirges. 
*T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the 

waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving 

and  hurrying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and 

noise  of  embarking; 
And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed 

out  of  the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore, 

and  the  village  in  ruins. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


In  July,  1758,  an  army  of  fifteen  thousand, 
under  General  James  Abercromby  and  Brigadier 
Lord  Howe,  attempted  to  take  Ticonderoga, 
where  Montcalm  was  stationed  at  the  head  of 
about  three  thousand  men.  Lord  Howe,  the  very 
life  of  the  army,  was  killed  in  the  first  skirmish, 
and  Abercromby  handled  the  army  so  badly  that 
it  was  repulsed  with  a  loss  of  nearly  two  thousand, 
and  fled  in  a  panic.  The  French  loss  was  less  than 
four  hundred,  and  the  victory  was  hailed  as  one 
of  the  greatest  ever  achieved  by  French  arms  in 
America. 


ON  THE  DEFEAT  AT  TICONDEROGA 
OR  CARILONG 

[July  8,  1758] 

NEGLECTED  long  had  been  my  useless  lyre, 
And  heartfelt  grief  represt  the  poet's  fire; 
But  rous'd  by  dire  alarms  of  wasting  war, 
Again,  O  muse,  the  solemn  dirge  prepare, 


And  join  the  widow's,  orphan's,  parent's  tear. 
Unwept,  unsung  shall  Britain's  chiefs  remain; 
Doomed  in  this  stranger  clime  to  bleed  in 

vain: 

Here  a  last  refuge  hapless  Braddock  found. 
When    the   grim    savage    gave    the    deadly 

wound : 

Ah !  hide  Monongahel  thy  hateful  head 
(Still  as  thy  waves  roll  near  the  injur'd  dead) 
On  whose  gore-moistened  banks  the  num'rous 

slain, 

Now  spring  in  vegetative  life  again, 
Whilst  their  wan  ghosts  as  night's  dark  gloom 

prevail 
Murmur  to  whistling  winds  the  mournful 

tale; 

Cease,  cease,  ye  grisly  forms,  nor  wail  the  past. 
Lo !  a  new  scene  of  death  exceeds  the  last ; 
Th'  empurpled  fields  of  Carilong  survey 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  one  disastrous  day ! 
Bold  to  the  charge  the  ready  vet'ran  stood 
And  thrice  repell'd,  as  oft  the  fight  renewed, 
Till  (life's  warm  current  drained)  they  sunk  in 

blood, 

Uncheck'd  their  ardor,  unallay'd  their  fire, 
See  Beaver,  Proby,  Rutherford,  expire; 
Silent  Britannia's  tardy  thunder  lay 
While  clouds  of  Gallick  smoke  obscur'd  the 

day. 
Th'  intrepid  race  nursed  on  the  mountain's 

brow 
O'er-leap  the  mound,  and  dare  th'  astonish'd 

foe; 
Whilst  Albion's  sons  (mow'd  down  in  ranks) 

bemoan 
Their  much  lov'd  country's  wrongs  nor  feel 

their  own; 
Cheerless   they   hear   the   drum   discordant 

beat  — 

And  with  slow  motion  sullenly  retreat. 
But  where  wert  thou,  oh!  first  in  martial 

fame, 

Whose  early  cares  distinguish'd  praises  claim, 
Who  ev'ry  welcome  toil  didst  gladly  share 
And  taught  th'  enervate  warrior  want  to  bear  ? 
Illustrious  Howe !  whose  ev'ry  deed  confest 
The  patriot  wish   that  fill'd  thy  generous 

breast : 

Alas !  too  swift  t'  explore  the  hostile  land, 
Thou  dy'dst  sad  victim  to  an  ambush  band, 
Nor  e'er  this  hour  of  wild  confusion  view'd 
Like  Braddock,  falling  in  the  pathless  wood; 
Still  near  the  spot  where  thy  pale  corse  is 

laid, 
May  the  fresh  laurel  spread  its  amplest  shade: 


u8 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Still  may  thy  name  be  utter'd  with  a  sigh, 
And  the  big  drops  swell  ev'ry  grateful  eye ; 
Oh !  would  each  leader  who  deplores  thy  fate 
Thy  zeal  and  active  virtues  emulate. 
Soon  should  proud  Carilong  be  humbled  low 
Nor  Montcalm's  self,  prevent  th'  avenging 

blow. 
London  Magazine,  1759. 


But  at  last  the  tide  turned.  In  1757  William 
Pitt  forced  his  way  to  the  leadership  of  the  gov 
ernment  in  England,  and  at  once  formed  a  com 
prehensive  plan  for  a  combined  attack  on  the 
French  forts  in  America.  The  first  point  of  attack 
was  Louisburg,  which  had  been  ceded  back  to 
France  in  1748,  and  in  the  spring  of  1758  a  strong 
expedition  under  Lord  Amherst  was  dispatched 
against  it.  The  siege  commenced  June  8  —  the 
very  day  of  the  disaster  at  Ticonderoga  —  and 
after  a  tremendous  bombardment  which  destroyed 
the  town  and  badly  breached  the  fortress,  the 
garrison,  numbering  nearly  six  thousand,  sur 
rendered  July  26,  1758. 


ON  THE  LATE  SUCCESSFUL  EXPE 
DITION  AGAINST  LOUISBOURG 

[July  26, 1758] 

AT  length  'tis  done,  the  glorious  conflict's 

done, 

And  British  valor  hath  the  conquest  won: 
Success  our  arms,  our  heroes,  honor  crowns. 
And  Louisbourg  an  English  monarch  owns ! 
Swift,  to  the  scene  where  late  the  valiant 

fought. 

Waft  me,  ye  muses,  on  the  wings  of  thought  — 
That  awful  scene  where  the  dread  god  of  war 
O'er  field  of  death  roll'd  his  triumphant  car: 
There  yet,  with  fancy's  eye,  methinks  I  view 
The  pressing  throng,  the  fierce  assault  renew: 
With  dauntless  front  advance,  and  boldly 

brave 
The   cannon's    thunder   and    th'    expecting 

grave. 

On  yonder  cliff,  high  hanging  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  trembling  joy  climbs  the  darksome 

steep; 

Britannia  lonely  sitting,  from  afar 
Waits  the  event,  and  overlooks  the  war; 
Thence,  rolls  her  eager  wand'ring  eyes  about 
In  all  the  dread  anxiety  of  doubt; 
Sees  her  fierce  sons,  her  foes  with  vengeance 

smite. 
Grasp  deathless  honors,  and  maintain  the 

fight. 


Whilst  thus   her   breast   alternate   passions 

sway, 

And  hope  and  fear  wear  the  slow  hours  away. 
See!   from  the  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
A  radiant  form  wings  her  aerial  flight. 
The  palm  she  carries,  and  the  crown  she 

wears, 

Plainly  denote  'tis  Victory  appears; 
Her  crimson  vestment  loosely  flows  behind, 
The  clouds  her  chariot,  and  the  wings  her 

wind: 
Trumpets    shrill    sounding    all    around    her 

play; 

And  laurell'd  honors  gild  her  azure  way  — 
Now   she   alights  —  the   trumpets   cease   to 

sound, 
Her    presence    spreads     expecting    silence 

round : — 
And  thus  she  speaks ;  whilst  from  her  heav'nly 

face 
Effulgent  glories  brighten  all  the  place  — 

"  Britannia,  hail !  thine  is  at  length  the  day, 
And  lasting  triumphs  shall  thy  cares  repay; 
Thy  godlike  sons,  by  this,  their  names  shall 

raise, 
And  tongues  remote  shall  joy  to  swell  their 

praise. 

I  to  the  list'ning  world  shall  soon  proclaim 
Of    Wolfe's    brave    deeds,   the    never-dying 

fame, 

And  swell  with  glory  Amherst's  patriot  name. 
Such  are  the  heroes  that  shall  ever  bring 
Wealth    to    their    country,   honor    to    their 

king: 

Opposing  foes,  in  vain  attempt  to  quell 
The  native  fires  that  in  such  bosoms  dwell. 
To  thee,  with  joy,  this  laurel  I  resign, 
Smile,  smile,  Britannia  1  victory  is  thine. 
Long  may  it  flourish  on  thy  sacred  brow! 
Long  may  thy  foes  a  forc'd  subjection  know ! 
See,  see    their    pow'r,  their    boasted  pow'r 

decline ! 
Rejoice,  Britannia  !  victory  is  thine." 

Give  your  loose  canvas  to  the  breezes  free, 
Ye  floating  thund'rers,  bulwarks  of  the  sea: 
Go,  bear  the  joyful  tidings  to  your  king, 
And,  in  the  voice  of  war,  declare  't  is  victory 

you  bring: 
Let  the  wild  crowd  that  catch  the  breath  of 

fame, 

In  mad  huzzas  their  ruder  joy  proclaim : 
Let  their  loud  thanks  to  heav'n  in  flames 

ascend, 


FORT   DUQUESNE 


119 


While   mingling  shouts  the  azure   concave 

rend. 

But  let  the  few,  whom  reason  makes  more  wise, 
With  glowing  gratitude  uplift  their  eyes : 
Oh !   let  their  breasts  dilate  with  sober  joy. 
Let  pious  praise  their  hearts  and  tongues 

employ ; 

To  bless  our  God  with  me  let  all  unite, 
He  guides  the  conq'ring  sword,  he  governs  in 

the  fight. 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 

The  fall  of  Louisburg  was  followed  a  few  months 
later  by  the  capture  of  Fort  Duquesne  (Novem 
ber  25,  1758),  by  General  John  Forbes.  Forbes, 
at  the  head  of  an  excellent  army,  had  proceeded 
slowly  and  carefully.  As  the  English  approached, 
the  French  realized  that  to  remain  was  simply  to 
be  captured,  so  they  deserted  the  hopeless  post, 
and  Forbes  marched  in  unmolested.  He  named 
his  conquest  Fort  Pitt,  after  the  great  minister. 

FORT  DUQUESNE 

A  HISTORICAL  CENTENNIAL  BALLAD 
[November  25,  1758-1858] 


COME,  fill  the  beaker,  while  we  chaunt  a  pean 

of  old  days: 
By  Mars!    no  men  shall  live  again  more 

worthy  of  our  praise, 
Than  they  who  stormed  at  Louisburg  and 

Frontenac  amain, 
And  shook  the  English  standard  out  o'er 

the  ruins  of  Duquesne. 

For  glorious  were  the  days  they  came,  the 

soldiers  strong  and  true, 
And  glorious  were  the  days,  they  came  for 

Pennsylvania,  too; 
When  marched  the  troopers  sternly  on  through 

forest's  autumn  brown, 
And  where  St.  George's  cross  was  raised,  the 

oriflame  went  down. 

Virginia  sent  her  chivalry  and  Maryland  her 

brave, 
And  Pennsylvania  to  the  cause  her  noblest 

yeomen  gave: 
Oh,  and  proud  were  they  who  wore  the  garb 

of  Indian  hunters  then, 
For  every  sturdy  youth  was  worth  a  score 

of  common  men! 


They  came  from  Carolina's  pines,  from 
fruitful  Delaware  — 

The  staunchest  and  the  stoutest  of  the  chiv 
alrous  were  there; 

And  calm  and  tall  above  them  all,  i'  the  red 
November  sun, 

Like  Saul  above  his  brethren,  rode  Colonel 
Washington. 

O'er  leagues  of  wild  and  waste  they  passed, 

they  forded  stream  and  fen, 
Where  danger  lurked  in  every  glade,  and 

death  in  every  glen; 
They   heard   the  Indian   ranger's   cry,   the 

Frenchman's  far-off  hail, 
From  purple  distance  echoed  back  through 

the  hollows  of  the  vale. 

And  ever  and  anon  they  came,  along  their 

dangerous  way, 
Where,  ghastly,  'mid  the  yellow  leaves,  their 

slaughtered  comrades  lay; 
The  tartans  of  Grant's  Highlanders  were 

sodden  yet  and  red, 
As  routed  in  the  rash  assault,  they  perished 

as  they  fled. 

—  Ah !  many  a  lass  ayont  the  Tweed  shall 
rue  the  fatal  fray, 

And  high  Virginian  dames  shall  mourn  the 
ruin  of  that  day, 

When  gallant  lad  and  cavalier  i'  the  wilder 
ness  were  slain, 

'Twixt  laurelled  Loyalhanna  and  the  outposts 
of  Duquesne. 

And  there  before  them  was  the  field  of  mas 
sacre  and  blood, 

Of  panic,  rout  and  shameful  flight,  in  that 
disastrous  wood 

Where  Halket  fell  and  Braddock  died,  with 
many  a  noble  one 

Whose  white  bones  glistened  through  the 
leaves  i'  the  pale  November  sun. 

Then  spoke  the  men  of  Braddock's  Field, 
and  hung  their  heads  in  shame, 

For  England's  tarnished  honor  and  for  Eng 
land's  sullied  fame; 

"And,  by  St.  George!"  the  soldiers  swore, 
"we'll  wipe  away  the  stain 

Before  to-morrow's  sunset,  at  the  trenches  of 
Duquesne." 


I2O 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'T  was   night   along   the   autumn   hills,   the 

sun's  November  gleam 
Had  left  its  crimson  on  the  leaves,  its  tinge 

upon  the  stream; 
And   Hermit   Silence   kept   his   watch   'mid 

ancient  rocks  and  trees, 
And  placed  his  finger  on  the  lip  of  babbling 

brook  and  breeze. 

The   bivouac's   set   by   Turtle   Creek;   and 

while  the  soldiers  sleep, 
The    swarthy    chiefs    around    the    fires    an 

anxious  council  keep; 
Some  spoke  of  murmurs  in  the  camp,  scarce 

whispered  to  the  air, 
But  tokens  of  discouragement,  the  presage 

of  despair. 

Some  a  retreat  advised ;  't  was  late ;  the 
winter  drawing  on; 

The  forage  and  provision,  too,  —  so  Ormsby 
said,  —  were  gone. 

Men  could  not  feed  on  air  and  fight;  what 
ever  Pitt  might  say; 

In  praise  or  censure,  still,  they  thought,  't  were 
wiser  to  delay. 

Then    up   spoke  'iron-headed    Forbes,    and 

through  his  feeble  frame 
There  ran  the  lightning  of  a  will  that  put 

them  all  to  shame! 
"I'll    hear   no    more,"    he   roundly   swore; 

"  we  '11  storm  the  fort  amain ! 
I'll  sleep  in  hell  to-morrow  night,  or  sleep 

in  Fort  Duquesne!" 

So  said:    and  each  to  sleep  addressed  his 

wearied  limbs  and  mind, 
And  all  was  hushed  i'  the  forest,  save  the 

sobbing  of  the  wind, 
And  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the  sentinel, 

who  started  oft  in  fright 
At  the  shadows  wrought  'mid  the  giant  trees 

by  the  fitful  camp-fire  light. 

Good  Lord!   what  sudden  glare  is  that  that 

reddens  all  the  sky, 
As  though   hell's   legions  rode  the  air  and 

tossed  their  torches  high ! 
Up,  men !    the  alarm  drum  beats  to  arms ! 

and  the  solid  ground  seems  riven 
By  the  shock  of  warring  thunderbolts  in  the 

lurid  depth  of  heaven! 


O  there  was  clattering  of  steel,  and  muster 
ing  in  array, 

And  shouts  and  wild  huzzas  of  men,  impatient 
of  delay, 

As  came  the  scouts  swift-footed  in  —  "  They 
fly!  the  foe!  they  fly! 

They've  fired  the  powder  magazine  and 
blown  it  to  the  sky! " 


Now  morning  o'er  the  frosty  hills  in  autumn 

splendor  came, 
And  touched  the  rolling  mists  with  gold,  and 

flecked  the  clouds  with  flame; 
And  through  the  brown  woods  on  the  hills  — 

those  altars  of  the  world  — 
The  blue  smoke  from  the  settler's  hut  and 

Indian's  wigwam  curled. 

Yet  never,   here,   had  morning  dawned  on 

such  a  glorious  din 
Of  twanging  trump,  and  rattling  drum,  and 

clanging  culverin, 
And  glittering  arms  and  sabre  gleams  and 

serried  ranks  of  men, 
Who  marched  with  banners  high   advanced 

along  the  river  glen. 

Oh,  and  royally  they  bore  themselves  who 

knew  that  o'er  the  seas 
Would  speed  the  glorious  tidings  from  the 

loyal  colonies, 
Of  the  fall  of  French  dominion  with  the  fall 

of  Fort  Duquesne, 
And  the  triumph  of  the  English  arms  from 

Erie  to  Champlain. 

Before  high  noon  they  halted;  and  while 
they  stood  at  rest, 

They  saw,  unfolded  gloriously,  the  "Gate 
way  of  the  West," 

There  flashed  the  Allegheny,  like  a  scimetar 
of  gold, 

And  king-like  in  its  majesty,  Monongahela 
rolled. 

Beyond,   the   River   Beautiful   swept  down 

the  woody  vales, 
Where    Commerce,    ere    a    century    passed, 

should  spread  her  thousand  sails; 
Between  the  hazy  hills  they  saw  Contrecosur's 

armed  batteaux, 
And  the  flying,  flashing,  feathery  oars  of  the 

Ottawa's  canoes. 


HOW  STANDS  THE   GLASS   AROUND? 


121 


Then,  on  from  rank  to  rank  of  men,  a  shout 

of  triumph  ran, 
And  while  the  cannon  thundered,  the  leader 

of  the  van, 
The   tall   Virginian,   mounted  on  the  walls 

that  smouldered  yet. 
And  shook  the  English  standard  out,  and 

named  the  place  Fort  Pitt. 

Again  with  wild  huzzas  the  hills  and  river 

valleys  ring, 
And  they  swing  their  loyal  caps  in  air,  and 

shout  —  "Long  live  the  King! 
Long  life  unto    King    George!"  they    cry, 

"and  glorious  be  the  reign 
That   adds   to   English   statesmen    Pitt,    to 

English  arms  Duquesne!" 

FLORUS  B.  PLIMPTON. 


Pitt  determined  to  strike  a  blow  at  the  very 
centre  of  French  power,  and  on  June  26,  1759,  an 
English  fleet  of  twenty-two  ships  of  the  line,  with 
frigates,  sloops-of-war,  and  transports  carrying 
nine  thousand  regulars,  appeared  before  Quebec. 
In  command  of  this  great  expedition  was  Major- 
General  James  Wolfe,  who  had  played  so  dashing  a 
part  in  the  capture  of  Louisburg  the  year  before, 
and  was  soon  to  win  immortal  glory. 

HOT  STUFF 

[June,  1759] 

COME,  each  death-doing  dog  who  dares  ven 
ture  his  neck. 

Come,  follow  the  hero  that  goes  to  Quebec; 

Jump  aboard  of  the  transports,  and  loose 
every  sail, 

Pay  your  debts  at  the  tavern  by  giving  leg- 
bail; 

And  ye  that  love  fighting  shall  soon  have 
enough : 

Wolfe  commands  us,  my  boys;  we  shall  give 
them  Hot  Stuff. 

Up  the  River  St.  Lawrence  our  troops  shall 

advance, 
To   the  Grenadiers'    March    we  will   teach 

them  to  dance. 
Cape  Breton  we  have  taken,  and  next  we  will 

try 

At  their  capital  to  give  them  another  black  eye. 
Vaudreuil,  't  is  in  vain  you  pretend  to  look 

gruff,  — 
Those  are  coming  who  know  how  to  give 

you  Hot  Stuff. 


With  powder  in  his  periwig,  and  snuff  in  his 
nose, 

Monsieur  will  run  down  our  descent  to  op 
pose; 

And  the  Indians  will  come:  but  the  light 
infantry 

Will  soon  oblige  them  to  betake  to  a  tree. 

From  such  rascals  as  these  may  we  fear  a 
rebuff? 

Advance,  grenadiers,  and  let  fly  your  Hot  Stuff! 

When  the  forty-seventh  regiment  is  dashing 

ashore, 
While  bullets  are  whistling  and  cannon  do 

roar. 
Says  Montcalm:    "Those  are  Shirley's  —  I 

know  the  lappels." 
"You  lie,"  says  Ned  Botwood,  "we  belong 

to  Lascelles' ! 
Tho'  our  clothing  is  changed,  yet  we  scorn 

a  powder-puff; 
So  at  you,  ye  bitches,  here's  give  you  Hot 

Stuff." 

EDWAKD  BOXWOOD. 


About  the  end  of  August  a  place  was  found 
where  the  Heights  might  be  scaled,  and  an  assault 
was  ordered  for  the  night  of  Wednesday,  Sep 
tember  12.  The  night  arrived;  every  preparation 
had  been  made  and  every  order  given;  it  only 
remained  to  wait  the  turning  of  the  tide.  Wolfe 
was  on  board  the  flagship  Sutherland,  and  to 
while  away  the  hours  of  waiting  he  is  said  to  have 
written  the  little  song,  ".How  Stands  the  Glass 
Around?" 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND? 

[September  12,  1759] 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 
For  shame  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys, 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound, 

The  trumpets  sound, 
The  colors  they  are  flying,  boys, 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound, 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fate,  my  boys, 

On  the  cold  ground. 

Why,  soldiers,  why. 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 
Why,  soldiers,  why  ? 
Whose  business  't  is  to  die! 
What,  sighing?  fie.' 


122 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Don't  fear,  drink  on,  be  jolly,  boys! 

'T  is  he,  you  or  I ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet  or  dry, 
We're  always  bound  to  follow,  boys, 

And  scorn  to  fly! 

'T  is  but  in  vain,  — 
I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys,  — 

'T  is  but  in  vain, 

For  soldiers  to  complain: 

Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  him  who  made  us,  boys, 

We're  free  from  pain! 

But  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  a  kind  landlady 

Cure  all  again. 

JAMES  WOLFE. 


Montcalm,  riding  out  from  Quebec  early  in  the 
morning  of  Thursday,  September  13,  1759,  found 
the  English  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle  on  the  Plains 
of  Abraham  —  they  had  scaled  the  cliffs  in  safety. 
He  attacked  about  ten  o'clock,  but  his  troops  were 
repulsed  at  the  second  volley  and  fled  in  confusion 
back  to  the  fort.  Wolfe  was  killed  in  the  charge 
which  followed,  and  Montcalm  was  fatally  wounded 
and  died  that  night.  The  French  were  demoralized ; 
a  council  was  called  and  the  incredible  resolution 
reached  to  abandon  the  fort  without  further  re 
sistance.  The  retreat  commenced  at  once,  and 
Quebec  was  left  to  its  fate.  It  was  never  again 
to  pass  into  the  hands  of  France. 


BRAVE  WOLFE 

[September  13,  1759] 

CHEER  up,  my  young  men  all, 
Let  nothing  fright  you ; 

Though  oft  objections  rise, 
Let  it  delight  you. 

Let  not  your  fancy  move 
Whene'er  it  comes  to  trial; 

Nor  let  your  courage  fail 
At  the  first  denial. 

I  sat  down  by  my  love. 
Thinking  that  I  woo'd  her; 

I  sat  down  by  my  love, 
But  sure  not  to  delude  her. 

But  when  I  got  to  speak, 
My  tongue  it  doth  so  quiver, 

1  dare  not  speak  my  mind, 
Whenever  I  am  with  her. 


Love,  here's  a  ring  of  gold, 
'T  is  long  that  I  have  kept  it, 

My  dear,  now  for  my  sake, 
I  pray  you  to  accept  it. 

When  you  the  posy  read, 
Pray  think  upon  the  giver, 

My  dear,  remember  me, 
Or  I'm  undone  forever. 

Then  Wolfe  he  took  his  leave, 
Of  his  most  lovely  jewel; 

Although  it  seemed  to  be 
To  him,  an  act  most  cruel. 

Although  it's  for  a  space 
I'm  forced  to  leave  my  love, 

My  dear,  where'er  I  rove, 
I'll  ne'er  forget  my  dove. 

So  then  this  valiant  youth 

Embarked  on  the  ocean, 
To  free  America 

From  faction's  dire  commotion. 

He  landed  at  Quebec, 

Being  all  brave  and  hearty; 

The  city  to  attack, 

With  his  most  gallant  party. 

Then  Wolfe  drew  up  his  men, 
In  rank  and  file  so  pretty, 

On  Abraham's  lofty  heights, 
Before  this  noble  city. 

A  distance  from  the  town 

The  noble  French  did  meet  them, 
In  double  numbers  there, 

Resolved  for  to  beat  them. 

A  Parley:  WOLFE  and  MONTCALM  together 
Montcalm  and  this  brave  youth, 

Together  they  are  walking; 
So  well  they  do  agree, 

Like  brothers  they  are  talking. 

Then  each  one  to  his  post, 

As  they  do  now  retire; 
Oh,  then  their  numerous  hosts 

Began  their  dreadful  fire. 

Then  instant  from  his  horse, 
Fell  this  most  noble  hero, 

May  we  lament  his  loss 
In  words  of  deepest  sorrow. 


THE  CAPTIVE'S   HYMN 


123 


The  French  are  seen  to  break, 
Their  columns  all  are  flying; 

Then  Wolfe  he  seems  to  wake, 
Though  in  the  act  of  dying. 

And  lifting  up  his  head 

(The  drums  and  trumpets  rattle), 
And  to  his  army  said, 

"I  pray  how  goes  the  battle?" 

His  aide-de-camp  replied, 

"  Brave  general,  't  is  in  our  favor, 
Quebec  and  all  her  pride, 

'T  is  nothing  now  can  save  her. 

"She  falls  into  our  hands, 

With  all  her  wealth  and  treasure.' 
"O  then,"  brave  Wolfe  replied. 

"I  quit  the  world  with  pleasure." 


Wolfe's  death  almost  overshadowed  the  victory. 
Major  Knox,  in  his  diary,  writes,  "  our  joy  at  this 
success  is  inexpressibly  damped  by  the  loss  we 
sustained  of  one  of  the  greatest  heroes  which  this 
or  any  other  age  can  boast  of." 


THE   DEATH    OF   WOLFE 

[September  13,  1759] 

THY  merits,   Wolfe,   transcend   all  human 

praise, 

The  breathing  marble  or  the  muses'  lays. 
Art  is  but  vain  —  the  force  of  language  weak, 
To  paint  thy  virtues,  or  thy  actions  speak. 
Had  I  Duche's  or  Godfrey's  magic  skill,     5~ 
Each  line  to  raise,  and  animate  at  will  — 
To  rouse  each  passion  dormant  in  the  soul, 
Point  out  its  object,  or  its  rage  control  — 
Then,  Wrolfe,  some  faint  resemblance  should 

we  find 

Of  those  great  virtues  that  adorned  thy  mind. 
Like    Britain's   genius   shouldst   thou   then 

appear, 

Hurling  destruction  on  the  Gallic  rear  — 
While  France,  astonished,  trembled  at  thy 

sight, 

And  placed  her  safety  in  ignoble  flight. 
Thy  last  great  scene  should  melt  each  Briton's 

heart, 

And  rage  and  grief  alternately  impart. 
With  foes  surrounded,  midst  the  shades  of 

death, 

These  were  the  words  that  closed  the  war 
rior's  breath  — 


"  My  eyesight  fails !  —  but  does  the  foe  retreat  ? 
If  they  retire,  I'm  happy  in  my  fate!" 
A  generous  chief,  to  whom  the  hero  spoke, 
Cried,  "  Sir,  they  fly !  —  their  ranks  entirely 

broke: 
Whilst  thy  bold  troops  o'er  slaughtered  heaps 

advance. 
And   deal   due   vengeance  on   the   sons  of 

France." 

The  pleasing  truth  recalls  his  parting  soul, 
And  from  his  lips  these  dying  accents  stole:  — 
"  I  'm  satisfied ! "  he  said,  then  wing'd  his  way, 
Guarded  by  angels  to  celestial  day. 
An    awful     band !  —  Britannia's     mighty 

dead, 

Receives  to  glory  his  immortal  shade. 
Marlborough  and  Talbot  hail  the  warlike 

chief  — 

Halket  and  Howe,  late  objects  of  our  grief, 
With  joyful  song  conduct  their  welcome  guest 
To  the  bright  mansions  of  eternal  rest  — 
For  those  prepared  who  merit  just  applause 
By  bravely  dying  in  their  country's  cause. 
Pennsylvania  Gazette,  Novembers,  1759, 

The  fall  of  Quebec  settled  the  fate  of  Canada. 
On  September  8,  1760,  Vaudreuil  surrendered 
Montreal  to  a  great  besieging  force  under  Am- 
herst.  By  the  terms  of  the  capitulation,  Canada 
and  all  its  dependencies  passed  to  the  British  crown. 
The  fight  for  the  continent  was  ended.  Indian 
hostilities  continued  for  some  years,  and  it  was 
not  until  October,  1764,  that  peace  was  made 
with  them.  One  of  its  conditions  was  the  return 
of  all  captives  taken  by  the  Indians,  and  they 
were  assembled  at  Carlisle,  Pa.,  December  31, 
1764.  It  was  there  the  incident  took  place  which 
is  related  in  the  following  verses. 

THE   CAPTIVE'S  HYMN 

(Carlisle,  Pa.,  December  31,  1764) 

THE  Indian  war  was  over, 

And  Pennsylvania's  towns 
Welcomed  the  blessed  calm  that  comes 

When  peace  a  conflict  crowns. 
Bitter  and  long  had  been  the  strife, 

But  gallant  Colonel  Bouquet 
Had  forced  the  foe  to  sue  for  grace, 

And  named  the  joyful  day 
When  Shawnees,  Tuscarawas, 

Miamis,  Delawares, 
And  every  band  that  roved  the  land 

And  called  a  captive  theirs  — 
From  the  pathless  depths  of  the  forest, 

By  stream  and  dark  defile, 


124 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Should  bring  their  prisoners,  on  their  lives. 

In  safety  to  Carlisle; 
Carlisle  in  the  Cumberland  valley, 

Wh.ere  Conodogwinnet  flows, 
And  the  guardian  ranges,  north  and  south, 

In  mountain  pride  repose. 

Like  the  wind  the  Colonel's  order 

To  hamlet  and  clearing  flew; 
And  mourning  mothers  and  wives  and  sons 
From  banks  where  Delaware  seaward  runs, 
From  Erie's  wave,  and  Ohio's  tide. 
And  the  vales  where  the  southern  hills  divide, 

Flocked  to  the  town,  perchance  to  view, 
At  last,  'mid  the  crowds  by  the  startled  square, 
The  faces  lost,  but  in  memory  fair. 

How  strange  the  scene  on  the  village  green 

That  morning  cold  and  gray! 
To  right  the  Indian  tents  were  set, 
And  in  groups  the  dusky  warriors  met, 
While  their  captives  clung  to  the  captors  yet, 

As  wild  and  bronzed  as  they  — 
In  rags  and  skins,  with  moccasined  feet, 
Some  loath  to  part,  some  fain  to  greet 

The  friends  of  a  vanished  day; 
And,  eagerly  watching  the  tents,  to  left 
Stood  mothers  and  sons  and  wives  bereft, 
While,  beyond,  were  the  throngs  from  hill 

and  valley, 
And,  waiting  the  keen-eyed  Colonel's  rally, 

The  troops  in  their  brave  array. 

Now  friends  and  captives  mingle, 

And  cries  of  joy  or  woe 
Thrill  the  broad  street  as  loved  ones  meet, 
Or  in  vain  the  tale  of  the  past  repeat, 

And  back  in  anguish  go. 
Among  them  lingered  a  widow  — 

From  the  Suabian  land  was  she  — 
And  one  fell  morning  she  had  lost 

Husband  and  children  three, 
All  slain  save  the  young  Regina, 

A  captive  spared  to  be. 
.Nine  weary  years  had  followed, 

But  the  wilderness  was  dumb, 
And  never  a  word  to  her  aching  heart 

Through  friend  or  foe  had  come. 
And  now,  from  Tulpehocken, 

Full  seventy  miles  away. 
She  had  walked  to  seek  her  daughter, 

The  Lord  her  only  stay. 

She  scanned  the  sun-browned  maidens ; 
But  the  tunic's  rough  disguise, 


The  savage  tongue,  the  forest  ways. 
Baffled  and  mocked  her  yearning  gaze, 

And  with  sobs  and  streaming  eyes 
She  turned  to  the  Colonel  and  told  him 

How  hopeless  was  her  quest  — 
Moaning,  "Alas,  Regina! 

The  grave  for  me  is  best!" 
"Nay,  Madam,"  gently  he  replied, 
"Don't  be  disheartened  yet  but  bide, 

And  try  some  other  test. 
What  pleasant  song  or  story 

Did  she  love  from  your  lips  to  hear?" 
"O  Sir,  I  taught  her  'Our  Father;* 

And  the  'Creed'  we  hold  so  dear, 
And  she  said  them  over  and  over 

While  I  was  spinning  near; 
And  every  eve,  by  her  little  bed, 

When  the  light  was  growing  dim, 
I  sung  her  to  sleep,  my  darling! 

With  Schmolke's  beautiful  hymn." 
"Then  sing  it  now,"  said  the  Colonel, 

And  close  to  the  captive  band 
He  brought  the  mother  with  her  hymn 

From  the  far  Suabian  land; 
And    with    faltering    voice    and    quivering 
lips. 

While  all  was  hushed,  she  sung 
The  strain  of  lofty  faith  and  cheer 

In  her  rich  German  tongue: 

"Allein,  und  doch  nicht  ganz  allein  ** 
(How  near  the  listeners  press!), 

Alone,  yet  not  alone  am  I, 

Though  all  may  deem  my  days  go  by 
In  utter  dreariness; 

The  Lord  is  still  my  company, 

I  am  with  Him,  and  He  with  me, 
The  solitude  to  bless. 

He  speaks  to  me  within  His  word 
As  if  His  very  voice  I  heard, 

And  when  I  pray,  apart, 
He  meets  me  in  the  quiet  there 
With  counsel  for  each  cross  and  care, 

And  comfort  for  my  heart. 

The  world  may  say  my  life  is  lone, 
With  every  joy  and  blessing  flown 

Its  vision  can  descry; 
I  shall  not  sorrow  nor  repine, 
For  glorious  company  is  mine 

With  God  and  angels  nigh. 

As  she  sung,  a  maid  of  the  captives 
Threw  back  her  tangled  hair, 


A  PROPHECY 


125 


And  forward  leaned  as  if  to  list 

The  lightest  murmur  there; 
Her   breath    came    fast,    her   brown    cheek 
flushed, 

Her  eyes  grew  bright  and  wide 
As  if  some  spell  the  song  had  cast, 

And,  ere  the  low  notes  died, 
With  a  bound  like  a  deer  in  the  forest 

She  sprang  to  the  singer's  side, 
And,  "Liebe,  kleine  Mutter!" 

Enfolding  her,  she  cried  — 
"My  dear,  dear,  little  Mother!"  — 

Then  swift  before  her  knelt 
As  in  the  long,  long  buried  days 

When  by  the  wood  they  dwelt; 
And,  "Vater  unser,  der  du  bist 

Im  Himmel,"  chanted  she, 
The  sweet  "Our  Father"  she  had  learned 

Beside  that  mother's  knee; 
And  then  the  grand  "Apostles'  Creed" 

That  in  her  heart  had  lain: 
"Ich  glaube  an  Gott  den  Vater," 

Like  a  child  she  said  again  — 
"I  believe  in  God  the  Father"  — 

Down  to  the  blest  "Amen." 
Stooping  and  clasping  the  maiden 

Whose  soul  the  song  had  freed, 
"Now  God  be  praised!"  said  the  mother, 

"This  is  my  child  indeed!  — 
My  own,  my  darling  Regina, 

Come  back  in  my  sorest  need. 
For  she  knows  the  Hymn,  and  'Our  Father,' 

And  the  holy  'Apostles'  Creed'!" 


Then,  while  the  throng  was  silent, 

And  the  Colonel  bowed  his  head, 
With  tears  and  glad  thanksgivings 

Her  daughter  forth  she  led; 
And  the  sky  was  lit  with  sunshine, 

And  the  cold  earth  caught  its  smile 
For  the  mother  and  ransomed  maiden, 

That  morning  in  Carlisle. 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


A   PROPHECY 

[1764] 

ERE  five  score  years  have  run  their  tedious 

rounds,  — 

Li  yei  Oppression  breaks  o'er  human  bounds, 
As  it  has  done  the  last  sad  passing  year, 
Made  the  New  World  in  anger  shed  the  tear,  — 
Unmindfu1  of  their  native,  once-loved  isle, 
They'll  bid  Allegiance  cease  her   peaceful 

smile, 
While  from  their  arms  they  tear  Oppression's 

chain, 

And  make  lost  Liberty  once  more  to  reign. 
But  let  them  live,  as  they  would  choose  to  be, 
Loyal  to  King,  and  as  true  Britons  free, 
They  '11  ne'er  by  fell  revolt  oppose  that  crown 
Which  first  has  raised  them,  though  now  pulls 

them  down; 

If  but  the  rights  of  subjects  they  receive, 
'T  is  all  they  ask  —  or  all  a  crown  can  give. 
ARTHUR  LEE  ( ?). 


PART   II 
THE  REVOLUTION 


FLAWLESS  HIS  HEART 

FLAWLESS  his  heart  and  tempered  to  the  core 

Who,  beckoned  by  the  forward-leaning  wave, 

First  left  behind  him  the  firm-footed  shore, 

And,  urged  by  every  nerve  of  sail  and  oar, 

Steered  for  the  Unknown  which  gods  to  mortals  gave, 

Of  thought  and  action  the  mysterious  door, 

Bugbear  of  fools,  a  summons  to  the  brave: 

Strength  found  he  in  the  unsympathizing  sun, 

And  strange  stars  from  beneath  the  horizon  won, 

And  the  dumb  ocean  pitilessly  grave: 

High-hearted  surely  he; 

But  bolder  they  who  first  off-cast 

Their  moorings  from  the  habitable  Past 

And  ventured  chartless  on  the  sea 

Of  storm-engendering  Liberty : 

For  all  earth's  width  of  waters  is  a  span, 

And  their  convulsed  existence  mere  repose, 

Matched  with  the  unstable  heart  of  man, 

Shoreless  in  wants,  mist-girt  in  all  it  knows, 

Open  to  every  wind  of  sect  or  clan, 

And  sudden-passionate  in  ebbs  and  flows. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


CHAPTER   I 


THE   COMING   OF    DISCONTENT 


The  close  of  the  struggle  with  the  French  for 
the  possession  of  the  continent  may  be  fairly  said 
to  mark  the  beginning  of  that  series  of  aggressions 
on  the  part  of  England  which  ended  in  the  revolt 
of  her  colonies.  True  there  had  been  before  that 
arbitrary  and  tyrannical  royal  governors,  and  ab 
surdly  perverse  enactments  on  the  part  of  the 
Lords  of  Trade;  but  not  until  the  French  troubles 
had  been  disposed  of  did  the  British  government 
bend  its  energies  seriously  to  regulating  the  affairs 
of  a  people  which  it  considered  fractious  and  tur 
bulent.  In  the  Virginia  Gazette  for  May  2,  1766, 
appeared  one  of  the  first  of  those  songs,  after 
wards  so  numerous,  which  expressed  the  discontent 
of  the  colonies  under  this  re'gime. 


THE    VIRGINIA   SONG 

[May  2,  1766] 

SURE  never  was  picture  drawn  more  to  the 

life, 
Or  affectionate  husband  more  fond  of  his 

wife, 
Than   America  copies   and   loves   Britain's 

sons, 
Who,  conscious  of  Freedom,  are  bold  as  great 

guns, 
"Hearts  of  Oak  are  we  still,  for  we're  sons 

of  those  men 

Who  always  are  ready,  steady,  boys,  steady, 
To  fight  for  their  freedom  again  and  again." 

Tho'  we  feast  and  grow  fat  on  America's 

soil, 
Yet  we  own  ourselves  subjects  of  Britain's  fair 

isle ; 

And  who's  so  absurd  to  deny  us  the  name, 
Since  true  British  blood  flows  in  every  vein  ? 
"Hearts  of  Oak,"  etc. 

Then  cheer  up,  my  lads,  to  your  country  be 

firm, 
Like  kings  of  the  ocean,  we'll  weather  each 

storm ;  . 

Integrity  calls  out,  fair  liberty,  see, 
Waves  her  Flag  o'er  our  heads  and  her  words 

are  be  free  ! 
"Hearts  of  Oak,"  etc. 


To  King  George,  as  true  subjects,  we  loyal 

bow  down. 
But  hope  we  may  call  Magna  Charta  our 

own. 
Let  the  rest  of  the  world  slavish  worship 

decree, 

Great  Britain  has  ordered  her  sons  to  be  free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,"  etc. 

Poor    Esau    his    birthright   gave  up  for  a 

bribe, 

Americans  scorn  th'  mean  soul-selling  tribe; 
Beyond  life  our  freedom  we   chuse  to  pos 
sess, 
Which  thro'  life  we'll  defend,  and  abjure  a 

broad  S. 
"Hearts  of  Oak  are  we  still,  and  we're  sons 

of  those  men 
Who  fear  not  the  ocean,  brave  roarings  of 

cannon, 
To  stop  all  oppression,  again  and  again." 

On  our  brow  while  we  laurel-crown 'd  Liberty 

wear, 

What  Englishmen  ought  we  Americans  dare ; 
Though  tempests  and  terrors  around  us  we 

see, 
Bribes  nor  fears  can  prevail  o'er  the  hearts 

that  are  free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,"  etc. 

With  Loyalty,  Liberty  let  us  entwine, 

Our  blood  shall  for  both  flow  as  free  as  our 

wine; 
Let  us  set  an  example,  what  all  men  should 

be, 
And  a  Toast  give  the  World,  "  Here 's  to  those 

dare  be  free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,"  etc. 


In  1766  William  Pitt,  perhaps  the  most  en 
lightened  friend  America  had  in  England,  became 
Prime  Minister,  and  adopted  toward  the  colonies 
a  policy  so  conciliatory  that  it  occasioned  much 
disgust  in  England  —  as  is  evident  from  the 
following  verses  which  appeared  originally  in  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine. 


130 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE   WORLD   TURNED   UPSIDE 
DOWN 

OR,  THE  OLD  WOMAN  TAUGHT  WISDOM 
[1767] 

GOODY  BULL  and  her  daughter  together  fell 

out. 
Both  squabbled,  and  wrangled,  and  made  a 

rout, 

But  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  remains  to  be  told, 
Then  lend  both  your  ears,  and  a  tale  I'll 

unfold. 

The  old  lady,  it  seems,  took  a  freak  in  her 

head, 
That  her  daughter,  grown  woman,  might  earn 

her  own  bread: 
Self-applauding  her  scheme,  she  was  ready  to 

dance; 
But  we're  often  too   sanguine   in  what  we 

advance. 

For  mark  the  event;   thus  by  fortune  we're 

crossed, 
Nor  should  people  reckon  without  their  good 

host; 
The  daughter  was  sulky,  and  would  n't  come 

to, 
And  pray,  what  in  this  case  could  the  old 

woman  do? 

In  vain  did  the  matron  hold  forth  in  the  cause. 
That  the  young  one  was  able;  her  duty,  the 

laws ; 

Ingratitude  vile,  disobedience  far  worse; 
But  she  might  e'en  as  well  sung  psalms  to  a 

horse. 

Young,  froward,  and  sullen,  and  vain  of  her 

beauty. 

She  tartly  replied,  that  she  knew  well  her  duty. 
That  other  folks'  children  were  kept  by  their 

friends, 
And  that  some  folks  loved  people  but  for  their 

own  ends. 

"Zounds,  neighbor!"  quoth  Pitt,  "what  the 
devil's  the  matter? 

A  man  cannot  rest  in  his  house  for  your  clat 
ter;" 

"Alas!"  cries  the  daughter,  "here's  dainty 
fine  work, 

The  old  woman  grown  harder  than  Jew  or 
than  Turk." 


"She  be ,"  says  the  farmer,  and  to  her 

he  goes, 

First  roars  in  her  ears,  then  tweaks  her  old 
nose, 

"  Hallo,  Goody,  what  ails  you  ?  Wake !  wo 
man,  I  say; 

I  am  come  to  make  peace,  in  this  desperate 
fray. 

"  Adzooks,  ope  thine  eyes,  what  a  pother  is 

here! 
You've  no  right  to  compel  her,  you  have  not,  I 

swear ; 
Be  ruled  by  your  friends,  kneel  down  and  ask 

pardon, 
You'd  be  sorry,  I'm  sure,  should  she  walk 

Covent  Garden." 

"  Alas !  "  cries  the  old  woman,  "  and  must  I 

comply  ? 
But  I  'd  rather  submit  than  the  huzzy  should 

die;" 

"  Pooh,  prithee  be  quiet,  be  friends  and  agree, 
You  must  surely  be  right,  if  you're  guided  by 

me." 

Unwillingly  awkward,  the  mother  knelt  down, 
While  the  absolute  farmer  went  on  with  a 

frown, 
"  Come,  kiss  the  poor  child,  there  come,  kiss 

and  be  friends! 
There,  kiss  your  poor  daughter,  and  make  her 

amends." 

"No  thanks  to  you,  mother,"  the  daughter 
replied : 

"But  thanks  to  my  friend  here,  I've  hum 
bled  your  pride." 


But  Pitt  was  soon  incapacitated  by  illness  from 
taking  any  active  part  in  the  government,  and 
Charles  Townshend,  chancellor  of  the  exchequer, 
was  able  to  pass  his  "port  bills,"  and  other  op 
pressive  measures.  Many  prominent  Americans, 
among  them  Samuel  Adams,  decided  that  the  col 
onies  must  be  independent. 


A   SONG 

[January  26,  1769] 

COME,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  like  a  true  British 

band. 
In  the  cause  of  our  country  who  join  heart  and 

hand; 


THE   LIBERTY   POLE 


Fair  Freedom  invites  —  she  cries  out,  "  Agree ! 
And  be  steadfast  for  those  that  are  steadfast 

for  me." 

Hearts  of  oak  are  we  all,  hearts  of  oak 
we'll  remain: 

We  always  are  ready  — 
Steady,  boys,  steady  — 
To   give   them   our  voices    again   and 
again. 

With  the  brave  sons  of  Freedom,  of  every 

degree, 

Unite  all  the  good  —  and  united  are  we : 
But  still  be  the  lot  of  the  villains  disgrace, 
Whose  foul,  rotten  hearts  give  the  lie  to  their 

face. 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

See !  their  unblushing  chieftain !   perverter  of 

laws! 
His  teeth  are  the  shark's,  and  a  vulture's  his 

claws  — 
As  soon  would  I  venture,  howe'er  he  may 

talk, 
My  lambs  with  a  wolf,  or  my  fowls  with  a 

hawk. 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

First  —  the  worth  of  good  Cruger  let's  crown 

with  applause, 
Who  has  join'd  us  again  in  fair  Liberty's 

cause  — 

Sour  Envy,  herself,  is  afraid  of  his  name, 
And  weeps  that  she  finds  not  a  blot  in  his 

fame. 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

To  Jauncey,  my  souls,  let  your  praises  re 
sound  ! 

With  health  and  success  may  his  goodness  be 
crown'd : 

May  the  cup  of  his  joy  never  cease  to  run 
o'er  — 

For  he  gave  to  us  all  when  he  gave  to  the  poor ! 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

What  Briton,  undaunted,  that  pants  to  be 

free, 
But  warms   at  the  mention   of   brave   De 

Launcey  ? 
"Happy  Freedom!"  said  Fame,  "what  a  son 

have  you  here! 
Whose  head  is  approved,  and  whose  heart  is 

sincere." 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 


For  worth  and  for  truth,  and  good  nature 

renown'd, 
Let  the  name  and  applauses  of  Walton  go 

round : 
His  prudence  attracts  —  but  his  free,  honest 

soul 
Gives  a  grace  to  the  rest,  and  enlivens  the 

whole. 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

Huzza !  for  the  patriots  whose  virtue  is  tried  — 
Unbiass'd  by  faction,  untainted  by  pride: 
Who  Liberty's  welfare  undaunted  pursue, 
With  heads  ever  clear,  and  hearts  ever  true. 

Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 
New  York  Journal,  January  26,  1769. 


Associations  known  as  Sons  of  Liberty  were 
organized  in  the  larger  cities,  and  in  February, 
1770,  the  first  Liberty  Pole  in  America  was  raised 
at  New  York  city,  in  what  is  now  City  Hall  Park. 
A  struggle  ensued  with  the  British  troops,  during 
which  the  pole  was  twice  cut  down,  but  it  was 
hooped  with  iron  and  set  up  a  third  time.  A  Tory 
versifier  celebrated  the  event  in  a  burlesque 
cantata,  from  which  the  following  description  of 
the  pole  is  taken. 


THE   LIBERTY   POLE 

[February,  1770] 

COME  listen,  good  neighbors  of  every  degree, 
Whose  hearts,  like  your  purses,  are  open  and 

free, 

Let  this  pole  a  monument  ever  remain, 
Of  the  folly  and  arts  of  the  time-serving  train. 
Derry  down,  down,  hey  derry  down. 

Its  bottom,  so  artfully  fix'd  under  ground, 
Resembles  their  scheming,  so  low  and  pro 

found ; 

The  dark  underminings,  and  base  dirty  ends. 
On  which  the  success  of  the  faction  depends. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

The  vane,  mark'd  with  freedom,  may  put  us 

in  mind, 
As  it  varies,  and  flutters,  and  turns,  with  the 

wind, 
That  no  faith  can  be  plac'd  in  the  words  of  our 

foes, 
Who  change  as  the  wind  of  their  interest 

blows. 
Derry  down,  etc. 


132 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  iron  clasp'd  around  it,  so  firm  and  so  neat, 
Resembles  too  closely  their  fraud  and  deceit, 
If  the  outside 's  but  guarded,  they  care  not  a  pin 
How  rotten  and  hollow  the  heart  is  within. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

Then  away,  ye  pretenders  to  freedom,  away, 

Who  strive  to  cajole  us  in  hopes  to  betray; 

Leave  the  pole  for  the  stroke  of  the  lightning 
to  sever, 

And,  huzzah  for  King  George  and  our  coun 
try  forever! 
Derry  down,  etc. 


Two  regiments  of  British  troops  arrived  at 
Boston  on  March  5,  1768,  and  annoyed  the  people 
in  many  ways.  Brawls  were  frequent,  and  by  the 
beginning  of  1770  the  tension  of  feeling  had 
reached  the  snapping  point.  The  "  Massachusetts 
Liberty  Song"  and  "The  British  Grenadier"  did 
not  go  well  together. 


COME,  come  fill  up  your  glasses, 

And  drink  a  health  to  those 
Who  carry  caps  and  pouches, 

And  wear  their  looped  clothes. 
For  be  you  Whig  or  Tory, 

Or  any  mortal  thing, 
Be  sure  that  you  give  glory 

To  George,  our  gracious  King. 
For  if  you  prove  rebellious, 

He'll  thunder  in  your  ears 
Huzza!  Huzza!  Huzza!  Huzza! 

For  the  British  Grenadiers! 

And  when  the  wars  are  over, 

We'll  march  by  beat  of  drum, 
The  ladies  cry  "So,  Ho  girls, 

The  Grenadiers  have  come! 
The  Grenadiers  who  always 

With  love  our  hearts  do  cheer. 
Then  Huzza!  Huzza!  Huzza!  Huzza! 

For  the  British  Grenadier!" 


On  the  evening  of  March  5  a  crowd  collected 
near  the  barracks  and  some  blows  were  exchanged ; 
a  sentinel  in  King  Street  knocked  down  a  boy,  and 
was  about  to  be  mobbed,  when  Captain  Preston 
and  seven  privates  came  to  his  assistance.  The 
crowd  pressed  upon  their  levelled  pieces,  which 
were  suddenly  discharged,  killing  four  men  and 
wounding  seven.  Crispus  Attacks,  a  mulatto 
slave,  was  the  first  to  fall. 


CRISPUS  ATTUCKS 

[March  5,  1770] 

WHERE  shall  we  seek  for  a  hero,  and  where 

shall  we  find  a  story  ? 
Our  laurels  are  wreathed  for  conquest,  our 

songs  for  completed  glory. 
But  we  honor  a  shrine  unfinished,  a  column 

uncapped  with  pride, 
If  we  sing  the  deed  that  was  sown  like  seed 

when  Crispus  Attucks  died. 

Shall  we  take  for  a  sign  this  Negro  slave  with 

unfamiliar  name  — 
With  his  poor  companions,  nameless  too,  till 

their  lives  leaped  forth  in  flame? 
Yea,  surely,  the  verdict  is  not  for  us,  to  render 

or  deny; 
We  can  only  interpret  the  symbol;  God  chose 

these  men  to  die  — 
As  teachers  and  types,  that  to  humble  lives 

may  chief  award  be  made; 
That  from  lowly  ones,  and  rejected  stones, 

the  temple's  base  is  laid! 

When  the  bullets  leaped  from  the  British  guns, 

no  chance  decreed  their  aim; 
Men  see  what  the  royal  hirelings  saw  —  a 

multitude  and  a  flame; 
But  beyond  the  flame,  a  mystery;  five  dying 

men  in  the  street, 
While  the  streams  of  severed  races  in  the  well 

of  a  nation  meet ! 

O   blood   of   the   people  !    changeless   tide, 

through  century,  creed,  and  race! 
Still  one  as  the  sweet  salt  air  is  one,  though 

tempered  by  sun  and  place; 
The  same  in  the  ocean  currents,  and  the  same 

in  the  sheltered  seas; 
Forever  the  fountain  of  common  hopes  and 

kindly  sympathies; 
Indian  and  Negro,  Saxon  and  Celt,  Teuton 

and  Latin  and  Gaul  — 
Mere  surface  shadow  and  sunshine ;  while  the 

sounding  unifies  all! 
One  love,  one  hope,  one  duty  theirs!    No 

matter  the  time  or  ken. 
There  never  was  separate  heart-beat  in  all  the 

races  of  men ! 

But  alien  is  one  —  of  class,  not  race  —  he  has 
drawn  the  line  for  himself; 

His  roots  drink  life  from  inhuman  soil,  from 
garbage  of  pomp  and  pelf; 


CRISPUS  ATTUCKS 


133 


His  heart  beats  not  with  the  common  beat, 
he  has  changed  his  life-stream's  hue; 

He  deems  his  flesh  to  be  finer  flesh,  he  boasts 
that  his  blood  is  blue: 

Patrician,  aristocrat,  Tory  —  whatever  his 
age  or  name, 

To  the  people's  rights  and  liberties,  a  traitor 
ever  the  same. 

The  natural  crowd  is  a  mob  to  him,  their 
prayer  a  vulgar  rhyme; 

The  freeman's  speech  is  sedition,  and  the 
patriot's  deed  a  crime. 

Wherever  the  race,  the  law,  the  land,  —  what 
ever  the  time  or  throne, 

The  Tory  is  always  a  traitor  to  every  class  but 
his  own. 

Thank  God  for  a  land  where  pride  is  clipped, 

where  arrogance  stalks  apart; 
Where  law  and  song  and  loathing  of  wrong 

are  words  of  the  common  heart; 
Where    the    masses    honor    straightforward 

strength,  and  know,  when  veins  are 

bled, 
That  the  bluest  blood  is  putrid  blood  —  that 

the  people's  blood  is  red! 

And  honor   to   Crispus   Attucks,   who   was 

leader  and  voice  that  day; 
The  first  to  defy  and  the  first  to  die,  with 

Maverick,  Carr,  and  Gray. 
Call    it   riot   or   revolution,   his    hand    first 

clenched  at  the  crown; 
His  feet  were  the  first  in  perilous  place  to  pull 

the  king's  flag  down; 
His  breast  was  the  first  one  rent  apart  that 

liberty's  stream  might  flow; 
For  our  freedom  now  and  forever,  his  head 

was  the  first  laid  low. 

Call  it  riot  or  revolution,  or  mob  or  crowd,  as 

you  may, 
Such  deaths  have  been  seed  of  nations,  such 

lives  shall  be  honored  for  aye. 
They  were  lawless  hinds  to  the  lackeys  —  but 

martyrs  to  Paul  Revere; 
And  Otis  and  Hancock  and  Warren  read  spirit 

and  meaning  clear. 
Ye  teachers,  answer :  what  shall  be  done  when 

just  men  stand  in  the  dock; 
When  the  caitiff  is  robed  in  ermine,  and  his 

sworders  keep  the  lock; 
When  torture   is  robbed  of    clemency,  and 

guilt  is  without  remorse; 


When  tiger  and  panther  are  gentler  than  the 

Christian  slaver's  curse; 
When  law  is  a  satrap's  menace,  and  order  the 

drill  of  a  horde  — 
Shall  the  people  kneel  to  be  trampled,  and 

bare  their  neck  to  the  sword? 

Not  so!  by  this  Stone  of  Resistance  that 
Boston  raises  here! 

By  the  old  North  Church's  kntern,  and  the 
watching  of  Paul  Revere! 

Not  so !  by  Paris  of  'Ninety-Three,  and  Ulster 
of  'Ninety-Eight! 

By  Toussaint  in  St.  Domingo !  by  the  horror 
of  Delhi's  gate! 

By  Adams's  word  to  Hutchinson !  by  the  tea 
that  is  brewing  still! 

By  the  farmers  that  met  the  soldiers  at  Con 
cord  and  Bunker  Hill! 

Not  so!  not  so!  Till  the  world  is  done,  the 
shadow  of  wrong  is  dread; 

The  crowd  that  bends  to  a  lord  to-day,  to 
morrow  shall  strike  him  dead. 

There  is  only  one  thing  changeless :  the  earth 
steals  from  under  our  feet, 

The  times  and  manners  are  passing  moods, 
and  the  laws  are  incomplete; 

There  is  only  one  thing  changes  not,  one 
word  that  still  survives  — 

The  slave  is  the  wretch  who  wields  the  lash, 
and  not  the  man  in  gyves! 

There  is  only  one  test  of  contract :  is  it  willing, 

is  it  good  ? 
There  is  only  one  guard  of  equal  right:  the 

unity  of  blood; 
There  is  never  a  mind  unchained  and  true  that 

class  or  race  allows; 
There  is  never  a  law  to  be  obeyed  that  reason 

disavows ; 
There  is  never  a  legal  sin  but  grows  to  the 

law's  disaster, 
The  master  shall  drop  the  whip,  and  the  slave 

shall  enslave  the  master! 

Oh,  Planter  of  seed  in  thought  and  deed  has 

the  year  of  right  revolved. 
And  brought  the  Negro  patriot's  cause  with 

its  problem  to  be  solved  ? 
His  blood  streamed  first  for  the  building,  and 

through  all  the  century's  years, 
Our  growth  of  story  and  fame  of  glory  are 

mixed  with  his  blood  and  tears. 


134 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


He  lived  with  men  like  a  soul  condemned  — 
derided,  defamed,  and  mute; 

Debased  to  the  brutal  level,  and  instructed  to 
be  a  brute. 

His  virtue  was  shorn  of  benefit,  his  industry 
of  reward; 

His  love !  —  O  men,  it  were  mercy  to  have  cut 
affection's  cord; 

Through  the  night  of  his  woe,  no  pity  save 
that  of  his  fellow-slave; 

For  the  wage  of  his  priceless  labor,  the  scourg 
ing  block  and  the  grave! 

And  now,  is  the  tree  to  blossom  ?  Is  the  bowl 

of  agony  filled  ? 
Shall  the  price  be  paid  and  the  honor  said,  and 

the  word  of  outrage  stilled  ? 
And  we  who  have  toiled  for  freedom's  law, 

have  we  sought  for  freedom's  soul  ? 
Have  we  learned  at  last  that  human  right  is 

not  a  part  but  the  whole  ? 
That  nothing  is  told  while  the  clinging  sin 

remains  part  unconfessed  ? 
That  the  health  of  the  nation  is  perilled  if  one 

man  be  oppressed  ? 

Has  he  learned  —  the  slave  from  the  rice- 
swamps,  whose  children  were  sold  — 

has  he, 
With  broken  chains  on  his  limbs,  and  the  cry 

in  his  blood,  "I  am  free!" 
Has  he  learned  through  affliction's  teaching 

what  our  Crispus  Attucks  knew  — 
When  Right  is  stricken,  the  white  and  black 

are  counted  as  one,  not  two  ? 
Has  he  learned  that  his  century  of  grief  was 

worth  a  thousand  years 
In  blending  his  life  and  blood  with  ours,  and 

that  all  his  toils  and  tears 
Were  heaped  and  poured  on  him  suddenly, 

to  give  him  a  right  to  stand 
From  the  gloom  of  African  forests,  in  the  blaze 

of  the  freest  land  ? 
That  his  hundred  years  have  earned  for  him  a 

place  in  the  human  van 
Which  others  have  fought  for  and  thought  for 

since  the  world  of  wrong  began  ? 

For  this,  shall  his  vengeance  change  to  love, 

and  his  retribution  burn, 
Defending  the  right,  the  weak,  and  the  poor, 

when  each  shall  have  his  turn; 
For  this,  shall  he  set  his  woeful  past  afloat  on 

the  stream  of  night; 


For  this,  he  forgets  as  we  all  forget  when  dark 
ness  turns  to  light; 

For  this,  he  forgives  as  we  all  forgive  when 
wrong  has  changed  to  right. 

And  so,  must  we  come  to  the  learning  of  Bos 
ton's  lesson  to-day; 

The  moral  that  Crispus  Attucks  taught  in  the 
old  heroic  way; 

God  made  mankind  to  be  one  in  blood,  as  one 
in  spirit  and  thought; 

And  so  great  a  boon,  by  a  brave  man's  death, 
is  never  dearly  bought! 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


This  insignificant  street  riot  was  the  famous 
"  Boston  Massacre."  It  created  a  great  stir,  and 
the  victims  were  buried  with  military  honors  on 
March  8,  the  bodies  being  deposited  in  a  single 
vault.  A  few  days  later,  Paul  Revere  engraved 
and  printed  a  large  hand-bill  giving  a  picture  of 
the  scene,  accompanied  by  the  following  lines  : 

UNHAPPY   BOSTON 

[March  8,  1770] 

UNHAPPY  Boston !  see  thy  sons  deplore 
Thy  hallowed  walks  besmear'd  with  guiltless 

gore. 

While  faithless  Preston  and  his  savage  bands, 
With  murderous  rancor  stretch  their  bloody 

hands ; 
Like   fierce   barbarians   grinning   o'er   their 

prey, 

Approve  the  carnage  and  enjoy  the  day. 
If  scalding  drops,  from  rage,  from  anguish 

wrung, 

If  speechless  sorrows  lab'ring  for  a  tongue, 
Or  if  a  weeping  world  can  aught  appease 
The  plaintive  ghosts  of  victims  such  as  these ; 
The  patriot's  copious  tears  for  each  are  shed, 
A  glorious  tribute  which  embalms  the  dead. 
But  know.  Fate  summons  to  that  awful  goal, 
Where  justice  strips  the  murderer  of  his  soul: 

Should  venal  C ts,  the  scandal  of  the  land, 

Snatch  the  relentless  villain  from  her  hand, 
Keen  execrations  on  this  plate  inscrib'd 
Shall  reach  a  judge  who  never  can  be  bribed. 
PAUL  REVERE. 


A  conflict  of  a  much  more  serious  nature  took 
place  at  Alamance,  N.  C.,  on  May  7,  1771,  be 
tween  a  body  of  colonists,  goeded  to  rebellion 
by  repeated  acts  of  extortion,  and  a  force  of 
British  regulars  under  Governor  Tryon.  The  col- 


A  NEW   SONG    CALLED   THE   GASPEE 


J3S 


onists  were  totally  defeated  and  left  two  hundred 
dead  and  wounded  on  the  field. 


ALAMANCE 

[May  7,  1771] 

No  stately  column  marks  the  hallowed  place 
Where  silent  sleeps,  un-urned,  their  sacred 

dust: 

The  first  free  martyrs  of  a  glorious  race, 
Their  fame  a  people's  wealth,  a  nation's 
trust. 

The  rustic  ploughman  at  the  early  morn 
The  yielding  furrow  turns  with  heedless 

tread, 

Or  tends  with  frugal  care  the  springing  corn, 
Where  tyrants  conquered  and  where  heroes 
bled. 

Above  their  rest  the  golden  harvest  waves, 
The  glorious  stars  stand  sentinels  on  high, 

While   in   sad   requiem,   near    their  turflcss 

graves, 
The  winding  river  murmurs,  mourning,  by. 

No  stern  ambition  moved  them  to  the  deed : 
In  Freedom's  cause  they  nobly  dared  to  die. 

The  first  to  conquer,  or  the  first  to  bleed, 
"God    and    their    country's    right"    their 
battle  cry. 

But  holier  watchers  here  their  vigils  keep 
Than  storied  urn  or  monumental  stone; 

For  Law  and  Justice  guard  their  dreamless 

sleep, 
And  Plenty  smiles  above  their  bloody  home. 

Immortal  youth  shall  crown  their  deathless 

fame ; 

And  as  their  country's  glories  shall  advance, 
Shall  brighter  blaze,  o'er  all  the  earth,  thy 

name, 

Thou    first-fought    field    of    Freedom  — 
Alamance. 

SEYMOUR  W.  WHITING. 


The  first  American  "victory"  occurred  on  the 
night  of  June  9,  1772,  when  the  British  eight-gun 
schooner  Gaspee  was  captured  and  burned  to  the 
water's  edge.  For  some  months  the  crew  of  the 
Gaspee,  commissioned  to  enforce  the  revenue 
acts  in  Narragansett  Bay,  had  been  stopping 
vessels,  seizing  goods,  stealing  sheep  and  hogs, 


and  committing  other  depredations  along  the 
shore.  On  June  9,  while  pursuing  the  Providence 
Packet,  the  schooner  ran  aground,  and  that  night 
was  boarded  by  a  party  of  Rhode  Islanders,  the 
crew  overpowered,  and  the  boat  burned. 


A  NEW  SONG  CALLED  THE  GASPEE 

[June  9-10.  1772] 

*T  WAS  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third 
The  public  peace  was  much  disturb'd 
By  ships  of  war,  that  came  and  laid 
Within  our  ports  to  stop  our  trade. 

In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-two, 
In  Newport  harbor  lay  a  crew 
That  play'd  the  parts  of  pirates  there, 
The  sons  of  Freedom  could  not  bear. 

Sometimes    they'd   weigh    and    give  them 

chase  — 

Such  actions,  sure,  were  very  base; 
No  honest  coasters  could  pass  by 
But  what  they  would  let  some  shot  fly. 

Which  did  provoke  to  high  degree 
Those  true-born  sons  of  Liberty, 
So  that  they  could  no  longer  bear 
Those  sons  of  Belial  staying  there. 

But  't  was  not  long  'fore  it  fell  out, 
That  William  Doddington  so  stout, 
Commander  of  the  Gaspee  tender, 
Which  he  had  reason  to  remember  — 

Because,  as  people  do  assert, 
He  almost  had  his  just  desert 
Here,  on  the  tenth  day  of  last  June, 
Between  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one  — 

Did  chase  the  sloop  call'd  the  Hannah, 
Of  whom  one  Linsey  was  commander; 
They  dogg'd  her  up  to  Providence  Sound, 
And  there  the  rascal  got  aground. 

The  news  of  it  flew,  that  very  day, 
That  they  on  Nanquit  Point  did  lay, 
That  night,  about  half  after  ten, 
Some  Narragansett  Indian-men  — 

Being  sixty-four,  if  I  remember, 
Soon  made  this  stout  coxcomb  surrender: 
And  what  was  best  of  all  their  tricks, 
They  in  his  breech  a  ball  did  fix. 


136 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


They  set  the  men  upon  the  land, 
And  burn'd  her  up,  we  understand; 
Which  thing  provoked  the  king  so  high, 
He  said,  "those  men  should  surely  die." 

So,  if  he  can  but  find  them  out, 
The  hangman  he'll  employ,  no  doubt: 
For  he  has  declared,  in  his  passion, 
"He'll  have  them  tried  in  a  new  fashion. 

Now  for  to  find  those  people  out, 
King  George  has  offered,  very  stout, 
One  thousand  pounds  to  find  out  one 
That  wounded  William  Doddington. 

One  thousand  more  he  says  he'll  spare, 
For  those  who  say  they  sheriffs  were: 
One  thousand  more  there  doth  remain 
For  to  find  out  the  leader's  name. 

Likewise,  one  hundred  pounds  per  man, 
For  any  one  of  all  the  clan. 
But  let  him  try  his  utmost  skill, 
I'm  apt  to  think  he  never  will 
Find  out  any  of  those  hearts  of  gold, 
Though  he  should  offer  fifty  fold. 


The  duty  on  tea,  imposed  five  years  before 
by  Townshend,  had  been  retained  by  the  British 
government  as  a  matter  of  principle,  and  in  the 
autumn  of  1 773  the  King  determined  to  assert 
the  obnoxious  principle  which  the  tax  involved. 
Several  ships  loaded  with  tea  were  accordingly 
started  for  America.  On  Sunday,  November  28, 
the  first  of  these  arrived  at  Boston,  and  two  others 
came  in  a  few  days  later.  The  town  went  wild, 
meeting  after  meeting  was  held,  and  on  the  night 
of  Tuesday,  December  16,  1773,  a  band  of  about 
twenty,  disguised  as  Indians,  boarded  the  ships, 
cut  open  the  tea-chests  and  flung  the  contents  into 
the  water. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA- 
PARTY 

[December  16,  1773J 

No !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 

Her  over-kind  protector,  — 
Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No!   ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 


As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

Thai  night  in  Boston  Harbor! 
It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  sevenscore  millions  saddled; 
Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon; 
Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 
And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 

Her  tearful  memories  treasured; 
Fast  spread  the  tempest's  darkening  pall, 

The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 
The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 

The  Boston  teapot  bubbled! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation, 
No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,  no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  red  men,  axe  in  hand,  — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered; 
The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,  — 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing; 
The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  adze, 

And  trot  behind  their  master; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads,  — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  — 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush 

The  streams  of  white-faced  millers, 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers; 
The  ropewalk  lends  its  'prentice  crew,  — 

The  tories  seize  the  omen: 
"Ay,  boys,  you'll  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemen, 
'King  Hancock,'  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,  — 
When  these  we  shoot  and  those  we  hang 

The  town  will  come  to  reason." 


On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride! 
And  now  their  ranks  are  forming,  — 


A  NEW  SONG 


137 


A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming! 
See  the  fierce  natives !   What  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together! 
A  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the  breeches,  — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches ! 

O  woman,  at  the  evening  board 

So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 
So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured, 

So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 
What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee, 

The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter, 
That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 

Condemned  to  milk  and  water! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other! 
Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  has  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack, 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 
The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers! 

The  waves  that  wrought  a  century's  wreck 

Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory; 
The  Mohawks  on  the  Dartmouth's  deck 

Still  live  in  song  and  story; 
The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 

Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor; 
Our  old  North-Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor; 
And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 

With  ever  fresh  libations, 
To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 

And  cheer  the  wakening  nations ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Next  morning,  Paul  Revere,  booted  and  spurred, 
started  for  Philadelphia  with  the  news  that  Boa- 
ton  had  at  last  thrown  down  the  gauntlet.  The 
following  song  appeared  in  the  Pennsylvania 


Packet  a  few  days  after  Revere  reached    Phila 
delphia. 

A  NEW  SONG 

[December  16,  1773] 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying, 

On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 
Without  jack  or  pendant  flying, 

Three  ill-fated  tea-ships  rode. 

Just  as  glorious  Sol  was  setting, 
On  the  wharf,  a  numerous  crew, 

Sons  of  freedom,  fear  forgetting, 
Suddenly  appeared  in  view. 

Armed  with  hammers,  axe,  and  chisels, 
Weapons  new  for  warlike  deed, 

Towards  the  herbage-freighted  vessels, 
They  approached  with  dreadful  speed. 

O'er  their  heads  aloft  in  mid-sky, 
Three  bright  angel  forms  were  seen; 

This  was  Hampden,  that  was  Sidney, 
With  fair  Liberty  between. 

"Soon,"  they  cried,  "your  foes  you'll  banish, 
Soon  the  triumph  shall  be  won; 

Scarce  shall  setting  Phrebus  vanish, 
Ere  the  deathless  deed  be  done." 

Quick  as  thought  the  ships  were  boarded, 
Hatches  burst  and  chests  displayed; 

Axes,  hammers  help  afforded; 
What  a  glorious  crash  they  made. 

Squash  into  the  deep  descended, 

Cursed  weed  of  China's  coast; 
Thus  at  once  our  fears  were  ended; 

British  rights  shall  ne'er  be  lost. 

Captains!    once  more  hoist  your  streamers, 
Spread  your  sails,  and  plough  the  wave; 

Tell  your  masters  they  were  dreamers, 
When  they  thought  to  cheat  the  brave. 


News  of  the  insurrection  was  received  in  Eng 
land  with  the  greatest  indignation,  and  measures 
of  reprisal  were  at  once  undertaken.  No  ships 
were  to  be  allowed  to  enter  the  port  of  Boston 
until  the  rebellious  town  should  have  repaid  the 
East  India  Company  for  the  loss  of  its  tea;  the 
charter  of  Massachusetts  was  annulled  and  her 
free  government  destroyed  ;  and  General  Gage  was 
sent  over  with  four  regiments  to  take  possession 
of  the  town. 


138 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


HOW  WE  BECAME  A  NATION 

[April  15,  1774] 

WHEN  George  the  King  would  punish  folk 

Who  dared  resist  his  angry  will  — 
Resist  him  with  their  hearts  of  oak 
That  neither  King  nor  Council  broke  — 
He  told  Lord  North  to  mend  his  quill, 
And  sent  his  Parliament  a  Bill. 

The  Boston  Port  Bill  was  the  thing 

He  flourished  in  his  royal  hand; 
A  subtle  lash  with  scorpion  sting, 
Across  the  seas  he  made  it  swing, 
And  with  its  cruel  thong  he  planned 
To  quell  the  disobedient  land. 

His  minions  heard  it  sing,  and  bare 
The  port  of  Boston  felt  his  wrath ; 
They  let  no  ship  cast  anchor  there, 
They  summoned  Hunger  and  Despair,  — 
And  curses  in  an  aftermath 
Followed  their  desolating  path. 

No  coal  might  enter  there,  nor  wood, 

Nor  Holland  flax,  nor  silk  from  France ; 
No  drugs  for  dying  pangs,  no  food 

For  any  mother's  little  brood. 

"Now,"   said   the  King,  "we    have    our 
chance, 

We'll  lead  the  haughty  knaves  a  dance." 

No  other  flags  lit  up  the  bay, 

Like  full-blown  blossoms  in  the  air, 

Than  where  the  British  war-ships  lay; 

The  wharves  were  idle;   all  the  day 
The  idle  men,  grown  gaunt  and  spare, 
Saw  trouble,  pall-like,  everywhere. 

Then  in  across  the  meadow  land, 
From  lonely  farm  and  hunter's  tent, 

From  fertile  field  and  fallow  strand, 

Pouring  it  out  with  lavish  hand, 
The    neighboring    burghs    their    bounty 

sent, 
And  laughed  at  King  and  Parliament. 

To  bring  them  succor,  Marblehead 

Joyous  her  deep-sea  fishing  sought. 
Her  trees,  with  ringing  stroke  and  tread, 
Old  many-rivered  Newbury  sped. 

And  Groton  in  her  granaries  wrought. 
And  generous  flocks  old  Windham  brought. 


Rice  from  the  Carolinas  came, 
Iron  from  Pennsylvania's  forge, 

And,  with  a  spirit  all  aflame, 

Tobacco-leaf  and  corn  and  game 

The  Midlands  sent;   and  in  his  gorge 
The  Colonies  defied  King  George! 

And  Hartford  hung,  in  black  array, 

Her  town-house,  and  at  half-mast  there 

The  flags  flowed,  and  the  bells  all  day 

Tolled  heavily;   and  far  away 
In  great  Virginia's  solemn  air 
The  House  of  Burgesses  held  prayer. 

Down  long  glades  of  the  forest  floor 
The  same  thrill  ran  through  every  vein, 

And  down  the  long  Atlantic's  shore; 

Its  heat  the  tyrant's  fetters  tore 

And    welded    them    through    stress    and 

strain 
Of  long  years  to  a  mightier  chain. 

That  mighty  chain  with  links  of  steel 
Bound  all  the  Old  Thirteen  at  last, 
Through  one  electric  pulse  to  feel 
The  common  woe,  the  common  weal. 
And  that  great  day  the  Port  Bill  passed 
Made  us  a  nation  hard  and  fast. 

HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


Gage  arrived  at  Boston  in  May,  1774,  and  at 
once  issued  a  proclamation  calling  upon  the  in 
habitants  to  be  loyal,  and  warning  them  of  his 
intention  to  maintain  the  authority  of  the  King 
at  any  cost. 

A  PROCLAMATION 

[May.  1774] 

AMERICA!   thou  fractious  nation, 
Attend  thy  master's  proclamation  ! 
Tremble!   for  know,  I,  Thomas  Gage, 
Determin'd  come  the  war  to  wage. 

With  the  united  powers  sent  forth, 
Of  Bute,  of  Mansfield,  and  of  North; 
To  scourge  your  insolence,  my  choice, 
While  England  mourns  and  Scots  rejoice! 

Bostonia  first  shall  feel  my  power, 
And  gasping  midst  the  dreadful  shower 
Of  ministerial  rage,  shall  cry, 
Oh,  save  me,  Bute!  I  yield  I  and  die. 


THE   BLASTED   HERB 


139 


Then  shall  my  thundering  cannons  rattle, 
My  hardy  veterans  march  to  battle, 
Against  Virginia's  hostile  land, 
To  humble  that  rebellious  band. 

At  my  approach  her  trembling  swains 
Shall  quit  well-cultivated  plains, 
To  seek  the  inhospitable  wood; 
Or  try,  like  swine  of  old,  the  flood. 

Rejoice!  ye  happy  Scots  rejoice! 
Your  voice  lift  up,  a  mighty  voice, 
The  voice  of  gladness  on  each  tongue, 
The  mighty  praise  of  Bute  be  sung. 

The  praise  of  Mansfield,  and  of  North, 
Let  next  your  hymns  of  joy  set  forth, 
Nor  shall  the  rapturous  strain  assuage, 
Till  sung's  your  own  proclaiming  Gage. 

Whistle  ye  pipes !  ye  drones  drone  on. 
Ye  bellows  blow!  Virginia's  won! 
Your  Gage  has  won  Virginia's  shore, 
And  Scotia's  sons  shall  mourn  no  more. 

Hail,  Middlesex!  oh  happy  county! 
Thou  too  shalt  share  thy  master's  bounty, 
Thy  sons  obedient,  naught  shall  fear, 
Thy  wives  and  widows  drop  no  tear. 

Thrice  happy  people,  ne'er  shall  feel 
The  force  of  unrelenting  steel; 
What  brute  would  give  the  ox  a  stroke 
Who  bends  his  neck  to  meet  the  yoke  ? 

To  Murray  bend  the  humble  knee; 
He  shall  protect  you  under  me; 
His  generous  pen  shall  not  be  mute, 
But  sound  your  praise  thro'  Fox  to  Bute. 

By  Scotchmen  lov'd,  by  Scotchmen  taught, 
By  all  your  country  Scotchmen  thought; 
Fear  Bute,  fear  Mansfield,  North  and  me, 
And  be  as  blest  as  slaves  can  be. 
The  Virginia  Gazette,  1774. 


The  colonies  rallied  nobly  to  Boston's  support; 
provisions  of  all  sorts  were  sent  over-land  to  the 
devoted  city;  the  1st  of  June,  the  day  on  which 
the  Port  Bill  went  into  effect,  was  observed  as  a 
day  of  fasting  and  prayer  throughout  the  country, 
and  it  became  a  point  of  honor  with  all  good  pa 
triots  to  refrain  from  indulgence  in  "the  blasted 
herb." 


THE   BLASTED   HERB 

[1774] 

ROUSE  every  generous,  thoughtful  mind, 
The  rising  danger  flee, 
If  you  would  lasting  freedom  find, 
Now  then  abandon  tea. 

Scorn  to  be  bound  with  golden  chains, 
Though  they  allure  the  sight; 
Bid  them  defiance,  if  they  claim 
Our  freedom  and  birthright. 

Shall  we  our  freedom  give  away, 
And  all  our  comfort  place, 
In  drinking  of  outlandish  tea, 
Only  to  please  our  taste? 

Forbid  it  Heaven,  let  us  be  wise, 
And  seek  our  country's  good; 
Nor  ever  let  a  thought  arise 
That  tea  should  be  our  food. 

Since  we  so  great  a  plenty  have, 
Of  all  that's  for  our  health, 
Shall  we  that  blasted  herb  receive, 
Impoverishing  our  wealth  ? 

When  we  survey  the  breathless  corpse, 
With  putrid  matter  filled, 
For  crawling  worms  a  sweet  resort, 
By  us  reputed  ill. 

Noxious  effluvia  sending  out 
From  its  pernicious  store, 
Not  only  from  the  foaming  mouth, 
But  every  lifeless  pore. 

To  view  the  same  enrolled  in  tea, 
Besmeared  with  such  perfumes. 
And  then  the  herb  sent  o'er  the  sea. 
To  us  it  tainted  comes  — 

Some  of  it  tinctured  with  a  filth 
Of  carcasses  embalmed; 
Taste  of  this  herb,  then,  if  thou  wilt! 
Sure  me  it  cannot  charm. 

Adieu!  away,  oh  tea!  begone! 
Salute  our  taste  no  more; 
Though  thou  art  coveted  by  some, 
Who 're  destined  to  be  poor. 

MESECH  WEARE. 
Fowle's  Gazette,  July  22,  1774. 


140 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


EPIGRAM 

ON   THE  POOR   OF   BOSTON   BEING   EMPLOYED 
IN   PAVING   THE  STREETS,    1774 

IN  spite  of  Rice,  in  spite  of  Wheat, 
Sent  for  the  Boston  Poor  —  to  eat: 
In  spite  of  Brandy,  one  would  think, 
Sent  for  the  Boston  Poor  —  to  drink : 
Poor  are  the  Boston  Poor,  indeed, 
And  needy,  tho'  there  is  no  Need: 
They  cry  for  Bread;  the  mighty  Ones 
Instead  of  Bread,  give  only  Stones. 
Rivington's  New  York  Gazetteer,  September  2, 
1774. 


It  was  plain  that,  in  this  crisis,  the  colonies 
must  stick  together,  and  the  proposal  for  a  Con 
tinental  Congress,  first  made  by  the  Sons  of  Lib 
erty  in  New  York,  was  approved  by  colony  after 
colony,  and  the  Congress  was  finally  called  to 
meet  at  Philadelphia,  September  1. 


THE   DAUGHTER'S   REBELLION 

WHEN  fair  Columbia  was  a  child, 
And  mother  Britain  on  her  smil'd 
With  kind  regard,  and  strok'd  her  head, 
And  gave  her  dolls  and  gingerbread, 
And  sugar  plumbs,  and  many  a  toy, 
Which  prompted  gratitude  and  joy  — 
Then  a  more  duteous  maid,  I  ween, 
Ne'er  frisked  it  o'er  the  playful  green; 
Whate'er  the  mother  said,  approv'd. 
And  with  sincere  affection  lov'd  — 
With  reverence  listen'd  to  her  dreams, 
And  bowed  obsequious  to  her  schemes  — 
Barter'd  the  products  of  her  garden, 
For  trinkets,  worth  more  than  a  farthing  — 
And  whensoe'er  the  mother  sigh'd, 
She,  sympathetic  daughter,  cri'd, 
Fearing  the  heavy,  long-drawn  breath, 
Betoken'd  her  approaching  death. 
But  when  at  puberty  arriv'd, 
Forgot  the  power  in  whom  she  liv'd, 
And  'gan  to  make  preposterous  splutter, 
'Bout  spreading  her  own  bread  and  butter, 
And  stubbornly  refus'd  t'  agree, 
In  form,  to  drink  her  bohea-tea, 
And  like  a  base,  ungrateful  daughter, 
Hurl'd  a  whole  tea  box  in  the  water  — 
'Bout  writing  paper  made  a  pother, 
And  dared  to  argue  with  her  mother  — 
Contended  pertly,  that  the  nurse, 
Should  not  be  keeper  of  the  purse; 


But  that  herself,  now  older  grown, 
Would  have  a  pocket  of  her  own, 
In  which  the  purse  she  would  deposit, 
As  safely  as  in  nurse's  closet. 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 

The  Whig  papers  generally  at  this  time  adopted 
for  a  headpiece  a  snake  broken  into  parts  repre 
senting  the  several  colonies,  with  the  motto, 
"  Unite  or  Die." 

ON  THE  SNAKE 

DEPICTED  AT  THE   HEAD  OF  SOME  AMERICAN 
NEWSPAPERS 

YE  sons  of  Sedition,  how  comes  it  to  pass 

That  America 's  typ'd  by  a  Snake  —  in  the 
grass? 

Don't  you  think  't  is  a  scandalous,  saucy 
reflection, 

That  merits  the  soundest,  severest  correction  ? 

New-England  's     the     Head,    too ;  —  New- 
England  's  abus'd, 

For  the  Head  of  the  Serpent  we  know  should 

be  bruis'd. 

From  Rivington's  New  York  Gazetteer,  Au 
gust  25,  1774. 

The  feeling  of  the  entire  country  was  aptly 
voiced  in  "Free  America,"  which  appeared  at 
that  time,  and  which  was  ascribed  to  Dr.  Joseph 
Warren. 

FREE   AMERICA 

[1774] 

THAT  seat  of  Science,  Athens, 
And  earth's  proud  mistress,  Rome; 
W'here  now  are  all  their  glories  ? 
We  scarce  can  find  a  tomb. 
Then  guard  your  rights,  Americans, 
Nor  stoop  to  lawless  sway; 
Oppose,  oppose,  oppose,  oppose, 
For  North  America. 

We  led  fair  Freedom  hither, 
And  lo,  the  desert  smiled! 
A  paradise  of  pleasure 
Was  opened  in  the  wild! 
Your  harvest,  bold  Americans, 
No  power  shall  snatch  away! 
Huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  huzza, 
For  free  America. 

Torn  from  a  world  of  tyrants, 
Beneath  this  western  sky, 


LIBERTY  TREE 


141 


We  formed  a  new  dominion, 
A  land  of  liberty: 

The  world  shall  own  we're  masters  here; 
Then  hasten  on  the  day: 
Huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  huzza, 
For  free  America. 

Proud  Albion  bowed  to  Caesar, 
And  numerous  lords  before; 
To  Picts,  to  Danes,  to  Normans, 
And  many  masters  more: 
But  we  can  boast,  Americans, 
We've  never  fallen  a  prey; 
Huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  huzza, 
For  free  America. 

God  bless  this  maiden  climate, 
And  through  its  vast  domain 
May  hosts  of  heroes  cluster, 
Who  scorn  to  wear  a  chain: 
And  blast  the  venal  sycophant 
That  dares  our  rights  betray; 
Huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  huzza, 
For  free  America. 

Lift  up  your  hands,  ye  heroes, 
And  swear  with  proud  disdain, 
The  wretch  that  would  ensnare  you, 
Shall  lay  his  snares  in  vain: 
Should  Europe  empty  all  her  force, 
We'll  meet  her  in  array. 
And  fight  and  shout,  and  shout  and  fight 
For  North  America. 

Some  future  day  shall  crown  us, 
The  masters  of  the  main, 
Our  fleets  shall  speak  in  thunder 
To  England,  France,  and  Spain; 
And  the  nations  over  the  ocean  spread 
Shall  tremble  and  obey 
The  sons,  the  sons,  the  sons,  the  sons 
Of  brave  America. 

JOSEPH  WARREN. 


The  Continental  Congress  assembled  at  Phila 
delphia,  September  5,  1774,  and,  after  four  weeks' 
deliberation,  agreed  upon  a  declaration  of  rights, 
claiming  for  the  American  people  the  right  of 
free  legislation  and  calling  for  the  repeal  of  eleven 
acts  of  Parliament. 


LIBERTY  TREE 

IN  a  chariot  of  light  from  the  regions  of  day, 
The  Goddess  of  Liberty  came; 


Ten  thousand  celestials  directed  the  way 

And  hither  conducted  the  dame. 
A   fair   budding   branch  from   the   gardens 

above, 

Where  millions  with  millions  agree, 
She  brought  in  her  hand  as  a  pledge  of  her 

love, 
And  the  plant  she  named  Liberty  Tree. 

The  celestial  exotic  struck  deep  in  the  ground, 

Like  a  native  it  flourished  and  bore; 
The  fame  of  its  fruit  drew  the  nations  around, 

To  seek  out  this  peaceable  shore. 
Unmindful  of  names  or  distinction  they  came, 

For  freemen  like  brothers  agree; 
With  one  spirit  endued,  they  one  friendship 
pursued, 

And  their  temple  was  Liberty  Tree. 

Beneath  this  fair  tree,  like  the  patriarchs  of 

old. 

Their  bread  in  contentment  they  ate, 
Unvexed  with  the  troubles   of    silver   and 

gold, 

The  cares  of  the  grand  and  the  great. 
With  timber  and  tar  they  Old  England  sup 
plied, 

And  supported  her  power  on  the  sea; 
Her  battles  they  fought,  without  getting  a 

groat, 
For  the  honor  of  Liberty  Tree. 

But  hear,  O  ye  swains,  't  is  a  tale  most  pro 
fane, 

How  all  the  tyrannical  powers, 
Kings,   Commons,  and  Lords,  are  uniting 

amain. 

To  cut  down  this  guardian  of  ours; 
From  the  east  to  the  west  blow  the  trumpet  to 

arms 
Through  the  land  let  the  sound  of  it 

flee, 
Let  the  far  and  the  near,  all  unite  with  a 

cheer, 
In  defence  of  our  Liberty  Tree. 

THOMAS  PAINE. 
Pennsylvania  Magazine,  1 775. 

The  duty  of  presenting  to  the  British  govern 
ment  the  Declaration  of  Rights  prepared  by  the 
Congress  devolved  upon  Benjamin  Franklin,  who 
was  in  England  at  the  time.  Lord  Dartmouth 
received  the  document,  but  permission  was  re 
fused  Franklin  to  present  the  case  for  the  Con 
tinental  Congress,  and  to  defend  it,  before  the 
House  of  Commons. 


142 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  MOTHER  COUNTRY 

[1775] 

WE   have  an   old   mother   that   peevish   is 

grown ; 
She  snubs  us  like  children  that  scarce  walk 

alone; 

She  forgets  we're  grown  up  and  have  sense 
of  our  own ; 

Which  nobody  can  deny,  deny, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

If  we  don't  obey  orders,  whatever  the  case, 
She  frowns,  and  she  chides,  and  she  loses  all 

pati- 
Ence,  and  sometimes  she  hits  us  a  slap  in  the 

face; 

Which  nobody,  etc. 

Her  orders  so  odd  are,  we  often  suspect 
That  age  has  impaired  her  sound  intellect; 
But  still  an  old  mother  should  have  due  re 
spect; 

Which  nobody,  etc. 

Let's  bear  with  her  humors  as  well  as  we  can ; 
But  why  should  we  bear  the  abuse  of  her 

man? 
When  servants  make  mischief,  they  earn  the 

rattan ; 

Which  nobody,  etc. 

Know,  too,  ye  bad  neighbors,  who  aim  to 

divide 
The  sons  from  the  mother,  that  still  she's 

our  pride; 

And  if  ye  attack  her,  we're  all  of  her  side; 
Which  nobody,  etc. 

We  '11  join  in  her  lawsuits,  to  baffle  all  those 
Who,  to  get  what  she  has,  will  be  often  her 

foes; 

For  we  know  it  must  all  be  our  own,  when 
she  goes; 

Which  nobody  can  deny,  deny, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

Very  few  Englishmen  believed  that  the  Ameri 
cans  would  fight.  Lord  Sandwich  said  that  they 
were  a  lot  of  undisciplined  cowards,  who  would 
take  to  their  heels  at  the  first  sound  of  a  cannon, 
and  that  it  would  be  easy  to  frighten  them  into 
submission.  The  "Pennsylvania  Song  "  was  evi 
dently  written  to  answer  this  assertion. 


PENNSYLVANIA  SONG 

WE  are  the  troop  that  ne'er  will  stoop 

To  wretched  slavery, 
Nor  shall  our  seed,  by  our  base  deed, 

Despised  vassals  be; 
Freedom  we  will  bequeath  to  them, 

Or  we  will  bravely  die; 
Our  greatest  foe,  ere  long  shall  know, 
How  much  did  Sandwich  lie. 
And  all  the  world  shall  know, 

Americans  are  free; 
Nor  slaves  nor  cowards  we  will  prove, 
Great  Britain  soon  shall  see. 

We'll  not  give  up  our  birthright, 

Our  foes  shall  find  us  men; 
As  good  as  they,  in  any  shape, 

The  British  troops  shall  ken. 
Huzza!   brave  boys,  we'll  beat  them 

On  any  hostile  plain; 
For  Freedom,  wives,  and  children  dear, 

The  battle  we'll  maintain. 
And  all  the  world,  etc. 

What!   can  those  British  tyrants  think, 

Our  fathers  cross'd  the  main, 
And  savage  foes,  and  dangers  met, 

To  be  enslav'd  by  them  ? 
If  so,  they  are  mistaken, 

For  we  will  rather  die; 
And  since  they  have  become  our  foes, 

Their  forces  we  defy. 
And  all  the  world,  etc. 
Dunlap's  Packet,  1775. 


About  the  middle  of  December,  1  774,  deputies 
appointed  by  the  freemen  of  Maryland  met  at 
Annapolis,  and  unanimously  resolved  to  resist 
the  attempts  of  Parliament  to  tax  the  colonies 
and  to  support  the  acts  of  the  Continental  Con 
gress.  They  also  recommended  that  every  man 
should  provide  himself  with  "a  good  firelock, 
with  bayonet  attached,  powder  and  ball,"  to  be 
in  readiness  to  act  in  any  emergency. 


MARYLAND  RESOLVES 

[December,  1774] 

ON  Calvert's  plains  new  faction  reigns, 
Great  Britain  we  defy,  sir, 

True  Liberty  lies  gagg'd  in  chains, 
Though  freedom  is  the  cry,  sir. 


MASSACHUSETTS  SONG   OF  LIBERTY 


143 


The  Congress,  and  their  factious  tools, 

Most  wantonly  oppress  us, 
Hypocrisy  triumphant  rules, 

And  sorely  does  distress  us. 

The  British  bands  with  glory  crown'd, 
No  longer  shall  withstand  us; 

Our  martial  deeds  loud  fame  shall  sound 
Since  mad  Lee  now  commands  us. 

Triumphant  soon  a  blow  he'll  strike, 
That  all  the  world  shall  awe,  sir, 

And  General  Gage,  Sir  Perseus  like, 
Behind  his  wheels  he'll  draw,  sir. 

When  Gallic  hosts,  ungrateful  men, 

Our  race  meant  to  extermine, 
Pray  did  committees  save  us  then, 

Or  Hancock,  or  such  vermin? 

Then  faction  spurn !   think  for  yourselves ! 

Your  parent  state,  believe  me, 
From  real  griefs,  from  factious  elves, 

Will  speedily  relieve  ye. 

Rivington's  Gazetteer. 


Such  effusions  as  the  "  Massachusetts  Liberty 
Song"  became  immensely  popular,  and  bands  of 
liberty-loving  souls  met  nightly  to  sing  them. 

MASSACHUSETTS   SONG  OF 
LIBERTY 

COME  swallow  your  bumpers,  ye  Tories,  and 

roar 
That  the  Sons  of  fair  Freedom  are  hamper'd 

once  more; 
But  know  that  no  Cut-throats  our  spirits  can 

tame, 
Nor  a  host  of  Oppressors  shall  smother  the 

flame. 

In  Freedom  we're  born,  and,  like  Sons 
of  the  brave, 

Will  never  surrender, 
But  swear  to  defend  her, 
And  scorn  to  survive,  if  unable  to  save. 

Our  grandsires,   bless'd   heroes,   we'll  give 

them  a  tear, 

Nor  sully  their  honors  by  stooping  to  fear; 
Through  deaths  and  through  dangers  their 

Trophies  they  won, 

We  dare  be  their  Rivals,  nor  will  be  outdone. 
In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 


Let  tyrants  and  minions  presume  to  despise, 
Encroach  on  our  RIGHTS,  and  make  FREEDOM 

their  prize; 
The  fruits  of  their  rapine  they  never  shall 

keep, 
Though  Vengeance  may  nod,  yet  how  short 

is  her  sleep. 
In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

The  tree  which  proud  Haman  for  Mordecai 

rear'd 
Stands  recorded,  that  virtue  endanger'd  is 

spared ; 
That  rogues,  whom  no  bounds  and  no  laws 

can  restrain, 
Must  be  stripp'd  of  their  honors  and  humbled 

again. 
In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

Our  wives  and  our  babes,  still  protected,  shall 

know 
Those  who  dare  to  be  free  shall  forever  be 

so; 
On  these  arms  and  these  hearts  they  may 

safely  rely 
For  in  freedom  we'll  live,  or  like  Heroes  we'll 

die. 
In  Freedom  we  're  born,  etc. 

Ye  insolent  Tyrants!  who  wish  to  enthrall; 
Ye  Minions,  ye  Placemen,  Pimps,  Pensioners, 

all; 
How  short  is  your  triumph,  how  feeble  your 

trust, 

Your  honor  must  wither  and  nod  to  the  dust. 
In  Freedom  we  're  born,  etc. 

When  oppress'd  and  approach'd,  our  KINO 
we  implore. 

Still  firmly  persuaded  our  RIGHTS  he'll  re 
store  ; 

When  our  hearts  beat  to  arms  to  defend  a 
just  right, 

Our  monarch  rules  there,  and  forbids  us  to 

fight. 
In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

Not  the  glitter  of  arms  nor  the  dread  of  a 

fray 
Could  make  us  submit  to  their  chains  for  a 

day; 

Withheld  by  affection,  on  Britons  we  call, 
Prevent  the  fierce  conflict  which  threatens 

your  fall. 
In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 


144 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


All  ages  should  speak  with  amaze  and  ap 
plause 

Of  the  prudence  we  show  in  support  of  our 
cause : 

Assured  of  our  safety,  a  BRUNSWICK  still 
reigns, 

Whose  free  loyal  subjects  are  strangers  to 

chains. 
In  Freedom  we  're  born,  etc. 

Then  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all, 
To  be  free  is  to  live,  to  be  slaves  is  to  fall ; 
Has  the  land  such  a  dastard  as  scorns  not  a 

LORD, 
Who  dreads  not  a  fetter  much  more  than  a 

sword  ? 

In  Freedom  we're  born,  etc. 
Attributed  to  MRS.  MERCY  WARREN. 


EPIGRAM 

RUDELY  forced  to  drink  tea,  Massachusetts, 

in  anger, 
Spills  the  tea  on  John  Bull.   John  falls  on  to 

bang  her. 
Massachusetts,  enraged,  calls  her  neighbors 

to  aid 

And  give  Master  John  a  severe  bastinade. 

Now,  good  men  of  the  law,  who  is  at  fault, 

The  one  who  begins  or  resists  the  assault? 

Anderson's  Constitutional  Gazette,  1 775. 


TO  THE  BOSTON  WOMEN 

O  BOSTON  wives  and  maids,  draw  near  and  see 
Our  delicate  Souchong  and  Hyson  tea, 
Buy  it,  my  charming  girls,  fair,  black,  or 

brown, 
If  not,  we  '11  cut  your  throats,  and  burn  your 

town. 
St.  James  Chronicle. 


It  was  evident  that,  in  the  excited  state  of  the 
country,  a  single  incident  might  turn  the  balance 
between  peace  and  war  and  produce  a  general 
explosion.  That  incident  was  not  long  in  coming. 


"PROPHECY" 

[1774J 

HAIL,  happy  Britain,  Freedom's  blest  retreat, 
Great  is  thy  power,  thy  wealth,  thy  glory 

great, 

But  wealth  and  power  have  no  immortal  day, 
For  all  things  ripen  only  to  decay. 
And  when  that  time  arrives,  the  lot  of  all, 
When  Britain's  glory,  power  and  wealth  shall 

fall; 
Then  shall  thy  sons  by   Fate's  unchanged 

decree 

In  other  worlds  another  Britain  see, 
And  what  thou  art,  America  shall  be. 

GULIAN  VERPLANCK. 


CHAPTER   II 


THE    BURSTING   OF   THE   STORM 


All  through  the  winter  of  1 774-75,  the  people  of 
Massachusetts  had  offered  a  passive  but  effective 
resistance  to  General  Gage.  Not  a  councillor,  judge, 
sheriff,  or  juryman  could  be  found  to  serve  under 
the  royal  commission;  and  for  nine  months  the 
ordinary  functions  of  government  were  suspended. 
At  eventide,  on  every  village-green,  a  company 
of  yeomen  drilled,  and  a  supply  of  powder  and 
ball  was  gradually  collected  at  Concord;  but 
every  man  in  the  province  was  given  to  under 
stand  that  England  must  fire  the  first  shot.  At 
the  beginning  of  spring,  Gage  received  peremp 
tory  orders  to  arrest  Samuel  Adams  and  John 
Hancock,  and  send  them  to  England  to  be  tried 
for  treason.  He  learned  that  they  would  be  at 
a  friend's  house  at  Lexington,  during  the  middle 
of  April,  and  on  the  night  of  April  18  dispatched 
a  force  of  eight  hundred  men  to  seize  them,  and 
then  to  proceed  to  Concord  and  destroy  the  mili 
tary  stores  collected  there.  Although  the  move 


ment  was  conducted  with  the  greatest  secrecy, 
Joseph  Warren  divined  its  purpose,  and  sent  out 
Paul  Revere  by  way  of  Charlestown  to  give  the 
alarm. 

PAUL   REVERE'S   RIDE 

[April  18-19,  1775] 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "If  the  British  march 
By  knd  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 


PAUL   REVERE'S   RIDE 


Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then   he   said,    "Good    night!"    and   with 

muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay. 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,   his   friend,   through   alley  and 

street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears. 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers. 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead. 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall. 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 

dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 


A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  bill. 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a 

spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 
That  was  all!    And  yet,  through  the  gloom 

and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his 

flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep. 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and 

bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 


146 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall. 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.  In  the  books  you  have 

read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of 

alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


At  the  same  time  Warren  dispatched  William 
Dawes  by  way  of  Roxbury;  but  though  Dawes 
played  an  important  part  in  the  events  of  the 
night,  his  exploits  have  been  completely  over 
shadowed  in  the  popular  imagination  by  those 
of  the  other  courier. 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME? 

I  AM  a  wandering,  bitter  shade; 
Never  of  me  was  a  hero  made; 
Poets  have  never  sung  my  praise, 
Nobody  crowned  my  brow  with  bays; 
And  if  you  ask  me  the  fatal  cause, 
I  answer  only,  "My  name  was  Dawes." 


'T  is  all  very  well  for  the  children  to  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere; 
But  why  should  my  name  be  quite  forgot, 
Who  rode  as  boldly  and  well,  God  wot? 
Why  should  I  ask  ?   The  reason  is  clear  — 
My  name  was  Dawes  and  his  Revere. 

When  the  lights  from  the  old  North  Church 

flashed  out, 

Paul  Revere  was  waiting  about, 
But  I  was  already  on  my  way. 
The  shadows  of  night  fell  cold  and  gray 
As  I  rode,  with  never  a  break  or  pause; 
But  what  was  the  use,  when  my  name  was 

Dawes  ? 

History  rings  with  his  silvery  name; 
Closed  to  me  are  the  portals  of  fame. 
Had  he  been  Dawes  and  I  Revere, 
No  one  had  heard  of  him,  I  fear. 
No  one  has  heard  of  me  because 
He  was  Revere  and  I  was  Dawes. 

HELEN  F.  MORE. 

Revere  galloped  at  top  speed  to  Lexington,  and 
warned  Hancock  and  Adams,  who  left  the  town 
shortly  before  daybreak.  Meanwhile  the  minute- 
men  of  the  village  had  gathered,  and  the  vanguard 
of  the  English  column  was  confronted  by  about 
fifty  colonials  under  command  of  Captain  John 
Parker.  The  British  commander.  Major  Pitcairn, 
ordered  them  to  disperse,  and  as  they  stood  motion 
less,  he  gave  the  order  to  fire.  His  men  hesitated, 
but  he  discharged  his  own  pistol  and  repeated  the 
order,  whereupon  a  deadly  volley  killed  eight  of  the 
minute-men  and  wounded  ten.  A  moment  later, 
the  main  body  of  the  British  came  up,  and  Parker, 
seeing  the  folly  of  resistance,  ordered  his  men  to 
retire. 

LEXINGTON  > 

[April  19,  1775] 
From  "Psalm  of  the  West" 

O'ER  Cambridge  set  the  yeoman's  mark: 
Climb,  patriot,  through  the  April  dark. 
O  lanthorn !  kindle  fast  thy  light, 
Thou  budding  star  in  the  April  night, 
For  never  a  star  more  news  hath  told, 
Or  later  flame  in  heaven  shall  hold. 
Ay,  lanthorn  on  the  North  Church  tower, 
When  that  thy  church  hath  had  her  hour. 
Still  from  the  top  of  Reverence  high 
Shalt  thou  illume  Fame's  ampler  sky; 

1  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier,  copyright, 
1884.  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


LEXINGTON 


For,  statured  large  o'er  town  and  tree, 
Time's  tallest  Figure  stands  by  thee, 
And,  dim  as  now  thy  wick  may  shine, 
The  Future  lights  his  lamp  at  thine. 

Now  haste  thee  while  the  way  is  clear, 

Paul  Revere! 
Haste,  Dawes !  but  haste  thou  not,  O  Sun ! 

To  Lexington. 

Then  Devens  looked  and  saw  the  light: 
He  got  him  forth  into  the  night, 
And  watched  alone  on  the  river-shore, 
And  marked  the  British  ferrying  o'er. 

John  Parker !  rub  thine  eyes  and  yawn, 
But  one  o'clock  and  yet  't  is  Dawn ! 
Quick,  rub  thine  eyes  and  draw  thy  hose: 
The  Morning  comes  ere  darkness  goes. 
Have  forth  and  call  the  yeomen  out, 
For  somewhere,  somewhere  close  about 
Full  soon  a  Thing  must  come  to  be 
Thine  honest  eyes  shall  stare  to  see  — 
Full  soon  before  thy  patriot  eyes 
Freedom  from  out  of  a  Wound  shall  rise. 

Then  haste  ye,  Prescott  and  Revere! 
Bring  all  the  men  of  Lincoln  here; 
Let  Chelmsford,  Littleton,  Carlisle, 
Let  Acton,  Bedford,  hither  file  — 
Oh  hither  file,  and  plainly  see 
Out  of  a  wound  leap  Liberty. 
Say,  Woodman  April!  all  in  green, 
Say,  Robin  April!  hast  thou  seen 
In  all  thy  travel  round  the  earth 
Ever  a  morn  of  calmer  birth  ? 
But  Morning's  eye  alone  serene 
Can  gaze  across  yon  village-green 
To  where  the  trooping  British  run 
Through  Lexington. 

Good  men  in  fustian,  stand  ye  still; 

The  men  in  red  come  o'er  the  hill. 

Lay  down  your  arms,  damned  Rebels  !  cry 

The  men  in  red  full  haughtily. 

But  never  a  grounding  gun  is  heard; 

The  men  in  fustian  stand  unstirred; 

Dead  calm,  save  maybe  a  wise  bluebird 

Puts  in  his  little  heavenly  word. 

O  men  in  red !  if  ye  but  knew 

The  half  as  much  as  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  tender  calm 

Each  hand  would  out,  and  every  palm 

With  patriot  palm  strike  brotherhood's  stroke 

Or  ere  these  lines  of  battle  broke. 


O  men  in  red !  if  ye  but  knew 

The  least  of  the  all  that  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  godly  calm 

Yon  voice  might  sing  the  Future's  Psalm  — 

The  Psalm  of  Love  with  the  brotherly  eyes 

Who  pardons  and  is  very  wise  — 

Yon  voice  that  shouts,  high-hoarse  with  ire, 

Fire  ! 

The  red-coats  fire,  the  homespuns  fall: 
The  homespuns'  anxious  voices  call, 
Brother,  art  hurt  ?  and  Where  hit,  John  ? 
And,  Wipe  this  blood,  and,  Men,  come  on, 
And,  Neighbor,  do  but  lift  my  head, 
And,  Who  is  wounded?   Who  is  dead? 
Seven  are  killed.   My  God  !  my  God  1 
Seven  lie  dead  on  the  village  sod. 
Two  Harringtons,  Parker,  Hadley,  Brown, 
Monroe  and  Porter,  —  these  are  down. 
Nay,  look  !  Stout  Harrington  not  yet  dead  I 
He  crooks  his  elbow,  lifts  his  head. 
He  lies  at  the  step  of  his  own  house-door; 
He  crawls  and  makes  a  path  of  gore. 
The  wife  from  the  window  hath  seen,  and 

rushed ; 
He  hath  reached  the  step,  but  the  blood  hath 

gushed ; 

He  hath  crawled  to  the  step  of  his  own  house- 
door, 
But  his  head  hath  dropped :  he  will  crawl  no 

more. 

Clasp,  Wife,  and  kiss,  and  lift  the  head: 
Harrington  lies  at  his  doorstep  dead. 

But,  O  ye  Six  that  round  him  lay 
And  bloodied  up  that  April  day! 
As  Harrington  fell,  ye  likewise  fell  — 
At  the  door  of  the  House  wherein  ye  dwell ; 
As  Harrington  came,  ye  likewise  came 
And  died  at  the  door  of  your  House  of  Fame. 
SIDNEY  LANIER. 


LEXINGTON 

[April  19,  1775] 

SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creep 
ing, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the 

sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were 

sleeping, 

Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 
Waving  her  golden  veil 
Over  the  silent  dale, 


148 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and 
spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is 

springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met ; 
Hark!  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ring 
ing! 
Look !  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass 

is  wet! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have 

died ; " 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come ; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder-burst 

rolling, 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 
Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 
Darken  the  waves  of  wrath,  — 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they 

fall; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 
Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  pranc 
ing, 

Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein ; 
Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high; 
Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is 

raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and 

wail, 

Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the 

gale; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 
Over  the  darkened  hills. 


Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girdled  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are 

lying! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their 

rest. 

While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 
Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from 

his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 
Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to 

sun; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 
Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won ! 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


The  British  pressed  on  to  Concord,  but  the 
greater  part  of  the  stores  had  been  hidden,  and 
minute-men  were  gathering  from  all  directions. 
Colonel  Smith,  commanding  the  British,  began  to 
realize  the  dangers  of  his  position  and  about  noon 
started  to  retreat  to  Boston.  And  none  too  soon, 
for  the  whole  country  was  aroused.  Minute-men 
swarmed  in  from  all  directions,  and  taking  advan 
tage  of  every  tree  and  hillock  by  the  roadside, 
poured  into  the  British  a  fire  so  deadly  that  the 
retreat  soon  became  a  disorderly  flight.  The 
timely  arrival  of  strong  reinforcements  was  all 
that  saved  the  British  from  annihilation. 


NEW   ENGLAND'S   CHEVY   CHASE 

[April  19,  1775] 

'T  WAS  the  dead  of  the  night.   By  the  pine- 
knot's  red  light 
Brooks  lay,  half-asleep,  when  he  heard  the 

alarm,  — 
Only  this,  and  no  more,  from  a  voice  at  the 

door: 

"The  Red-Coats  are  out,  and  have  passed 
Phips's  farm." 

Brooks  was  booted  and  spurred;  he  said  never 

a  word; 
Took  his  horn  from  its  peg,  and  his  gun 

from  its  rack; 
To  the  cold  midnight  air  he  led  out  his  white 

mare, 

Strapped  the  girths  and  the  bridle,  and 
sprang  to  her  back. 


NEW   ENGLAND'S   CHEVY   CHASE 


149 


Up  the  North  Country  road  at  her  full  pace 

she  strode. 
Till  Brooks  reined  her  up  at  John  TarbelPs 

to  say, 
"We  have  got  the  alarm,  —  they  have  left 

Phips's  farm; 

You  rouse  the  East  Precinct,  and  I  '11  go  this 
way." 

John  called  his  hired  man,  and  they  harnessed 

the  span; 
They  roused  Abram  Garfield,  and  Abram 

called  me: 
"Turn  out  right  away;  let'  no  minute-man 

stay; 

The  Red-Coats  have  landed  at  Phips's," 
says  he. 

By  the  Powder-House  Green  seven  others  fell 

in; 
At  Nahum's,  the  men  from  the  Saw-Mill 

came  down; 
So  that  when  Jabez  Bland  gave  the  word  of 

command. 

And     said,     "Forward,     march!"     there 
marched  forward  THE  TOWN. 

Parson  Wilderspin  stood  by  the  side  of  the 

road, 
And  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  he  said,  "Let 


us  pray 


O  Lord,  God  of  might,  let  thine  angels  of 

light 
Lead  thy  children  to-night  to  the  glories  of 

day! 
And  let   thy  stars  fight  all  the  foes  of    the 

Right 
As  the  stars  fought  of  old  against  Sisera." 

And   from   heaven's   high   arch   those   stars 

blessed  our  march, 

Till  the  last  of  them  faded  in  twilight  away; 
And  with  morning's  bright  beam,  by  the  bank 

of  the  stream. 

Half  the  county  marched  in,  and  we  heard 
Davis  say: 

'On  the  King's  own  highway  I  may  travel 

all  day, 
And  no  man  hath  warrant  to  stop  me," 

says  he; 
"I've  no  man  that's  afraid,  and  I'll  march 

at  their  head." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  boys,  —  "Forward, 
march!   Follow  me." 


And  we  marched  as  he  said,  and  the  Fifer  he 

played 
The  old  "White  Cockade,"  and  he  played 

it  right  well. 
We  saw  Davis  fall  dead,  but  no  man  was 

afraid ; 

That   bridge  we'd   have  had,   though  a 
thousand  men  fell. 

This  opened  the  play,  and  it  lasted  all  day. 
We  made  Concord  too  hot  for  the  Red- 
Coats  to  stay; 
Down  the  Lexington  way  we  stormed,  black, 

white,  and  gray; 

We  were  first  in  the  feast,  and  were  last  in 
the  fray. 

They  would  turn  in  dismay,  as  red  wolves 

turn  at  bay. 
They  levelled,  they  fired,  they  charged  up 

the  road. 
Cephas  Willard  fell  dead ;  he  was  shot  in  the 

head 

As   he   knelt  by  Aunt   Prudence's  well- 
sweep  to  load. 

John  Danforth  was  hit  just  in  Lexington 

Street, 
John  Bridge  at  that  lane  where  you  cross 

Beaver  Falls, 
And  Winch  and  the  Snows  just  above  John 

Munroe's,  — 

Swept  away  by  one  swoop  of  the  big  can 
non-balls. 

I  took  Bridge  on  my  knee,  but  he  said,  "Don't 

mind  me; 
Fill  your  horn  from  mine,  —  let  me  lie  where 

I  be. 
Our  fathers,"  says  he,  "that  their  sons  might 

be  free, 
Left  their  king  on  his  throne,  and  came  over 

the  sea; 
And  that  man  is  a  knave  or  a  fool  who,  to 

save 
His  life  for  a  minute,  would  live  like  a  slave." 

Well,  all  would  not  do!    There  were  men 

good  as  new,  — 
From  Rumford,  from  Saugus,  from  towns 

far  away,  — 
Who  filled  up  quick  and  well  for  each  soldier 

that  fell; 

And  we  drove  them,  and  drove  them,  and 
drove  them,  all  day. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


We  knew,  every  one,  it  was  war  that  begun, 
When  that  morning's  marching  was  only  half 
done. 

In  the  hazy  twilight,  at  the  coming  of  night, 
1  crowded  three  buckshot  and  one  bullet 

down. 
'T  was  my  last  charge  of  lead ;   and  I  aimed 

her  and  said, 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  lobsters,  in  old  Boston 
Town." 

In  a  barn  at  Milk  Row,  Ephraim  Bates  and 

Munroe 

And  Baker  and  Abram  and  I  made  a  bed. 
We  had  mighty  sore  feet,  and  we'd  nothing 

to  eat; 
But  we  'd  driven  the  Red-Coats,  and  Amos, 

he  said: 
"It's  the  first  time,"   says  he,   "that  it's 

happened  to  me 
To  march  to  the  sea  by  this  road  where 

we've  come; 
But  confound  this  whole  day,  but  we'd  all 

of  us  say 

We'd  rather  have  spent  it  this  way  than 
to  home." 


The  hunt  had  begun  with  the  dawn  of  the  sun. 
And  night  saw  the  wolf  driven  back  to  his 

den. 

And  never  since  then,  in  the  memory  of  men, 
Has  the  Old  Bay  State  seen  such  a  hunting 
again. 

EDWAHD  EVERETT  HALE. 
April  19,  1882. 


THE  KING'S  OWN  REGULARS 

AND  THEIR  TRIUMPH  OVER  THE  IRREGULARS 

SINCE  you  all  will  have  singing,  and  won't 

be  said  nay, 

I  cannot  refuse,  when  you  so  beg  and  pray; 
So  I  '11  sing  you  a  song,  —  as  a  body  may  say, 
'Tis  of  the  King's  Regulars,  who  ne'er  ran 

away. 
Oh !  the  old  soldiers  of  the  King,  and  the 

King's  own  Regulars. 

At  Prestonpans  we  met  with  some  rebels  one 

day, 
We  marshalled  ourselves  all  in  comely  array; 


Our  hearts  were  all  stout,  and  bid  our  legs 

stay, 
But  our  feet  were  wrong-headed  and  took  us 

away. 

At  Falkirk  we  resolved  to  be  braver, 

And  recover  some  credit  by  better  behavior: 

We  would  n't  acknowledge  feet  had  done  us 

a  favor, 
So  feet  swore  they  would  stand,  but  —  legs 

ran  however. 

No  troops  perform  better  than  we  at  reviews, 
We  march  and  we  wheel,  and  whatever  you 

choose, 
George  would  see  how  we  fight,  and  we  never 

refuse. 
There  we  all  fight  with  courage  —  you  may 

see't  in  the  news. 

To  Monongahela,  with  fifes  and  with  drums, 
We  marched  in  fine  order,  with  cannon  and 

bombs ; 

That  great  expedition  cost  infinite  sums, 
But  a  few  irregulars  cut  us  all  into  crumbs. 

It  was  not  fair  to  shoot  at  us  from  behind 

trees, 
If  they  had  stood  open,  as  they  ought,  before 

our  great  guns,  we  should  have  beat 

them  with  ease, 
They  may  fight  with  one  another  that  way  if 

they  please, 
But  it  is  not  regular  to  stand,  and  fight  with 

such  rascals  as  these. 

At  Fort  George  and  Oswego,  to  our  great 

reputation, 

We  show'd  our  vast  skill  in  fortification; 
The  French  fired  three  guns ;  —  of  the  fourth 

they  had  no  occasion; 
For  we  gave  up  those  forts,  not  through  fear, 

but  mere  persuasion. 

To  Ticonderoga  we  went  in  a  passion, 
Swearing  to  be  revenged  on  the  whole  French 

nation; 

But  we  soon  turned  tail,  without  hesitation, 
Because  they  fought  behind  trees,  which  is 

not  the  regular  fashion. 

Lord  Loudon,  he  was  a  regular  general,  they 

say; 
With  a  great  regular  army  he  went  on  his 

way, 


MORGAN   STANWOOD 


Against  Louisburg,  to  make  it  his  prey. 
But  returned  —  without  seeing  it,  —  for  he 
did  n't  feel  bold  that  day. 

Grown  proud  at  reviews,  great  George  had 

no  rest. 
Each  grandsire,  he  had  heard,  a  rebellion 

suppressed, 
He  wish'd  a  rebellion,  looked  round  and  saw 

none. 
So  resolved  a   rebellion   to  make  —  of  his 

own. 

The  Yankees  he  bravely  pitched  on,  because 

he  thought  they  would  n't  fight, 
And  so  he  sent  us  over  to  take  away  their 

right; 
But  lest  they  should  spoil  our  review  clothes, 

he  cried  braver  and  louder. 
For  God's  sake,  brother  kings,  don't  sell  the 

cowards  any  powder. 

Our  general  with  his  council  of  war  did  ad 
vise 

How  at  Lexington  we  might  the  Yankees 
surprise ; 

We  march'd  —  and  re-marched  —  all  sur 
prised  —  at  being  beat ; 

And  so  our  wise  general's  plan  of  surprise  — 
was  complete. 

For  fifteen  miles,  they  follow'd  and  pelted 
us,  we  scarce  had  time  to  pull  a  trig 
ger; 

But  did  you  ever  know  a  retreat  performed 
with  more  vigor? 

For  we  did  it  in  two  hours,  which  saved  us 
from  perdition; 

'T  was  not  in  going  out,  but  in  returning, 
consisted  our  EXPEDITION. 

Says  our  general,  "We  were  forced  to  take 

to  our  arms  in  our  defence 
(For  arms  read  legs,  and  it  will  be  both  truth 

and  sense), 
Lord  Percy  (says  he),  I  must  say  something 

of  him  in  civility, 
And  that  is  —  'I  can  never  enough  praise 

him  for  his  great  —  agility.'" 

Of  their  firing  from  behind  fences  he  makes 

a  great  pother; 
Every  fence  has  two  sides,  they  made  use  of 

one,  and  we  only  forgot  to  use  the 

other; 


Then  we  turned  our  backs  and  ran  away  so 
fast;  don't  let  that  disgrace  us, 

'T  was  only  to  make  good  what  Sandwich 
said,  that  the  Yankees  —  could  not  face 


As  they  could  not  get  before  us,  how  could 

they  look  us  in  the  face? 
We  took  care  they  should  n't,  by  scampering 

away  apace. 
That  they  had  not  much  to  brag  of,  is  a  very 

plain  case; 
For  if  they  beat  us  in  the  fight,  we  beat  them 

in  the  race. 
Pennsylvania  Evening  Post,  March  30,  1776. 

How  the  alarm  of  the  fight  spread  through  the 
countryside,  how  men  left  the  plough,  the  loom, 
the  anvil,  and  hastened,  musket  in  hand,  to  the 
land's  defence  that  day,  has  been  told  and  retold 
in  song  and  story.  Here  is  the  story  of  Morgan 
Stan  wood,  one  among  hundreds  such. 

MORGAN  STANWOOD 

CAPE   ANN,   1775 

MORGAN  STANWOOD,  patriot! 

Little  more  is  known; 
Nothing  of  his  home  is  left 

But  the  door-step  stone. 

Morgan  Stanwood,  to  our  thought 

You  return  once  more; 
Once  again  the  meadows  lift 

Daisies  to  your  door. 

Once  again  the  morn  is  sweet, 

Half  the  hay  is  down,  — 
Hark !  wrhat  means  that  sudden  clang 

From  the  distant  town? 

Larum  bell  and  rolling  drum 

Answer  sea-borne  guns; 
Larum  bell  and  rolling  drum 

Summon  Freedom's  sons! 

And  the  mowrer  thinks  to  him 

Cry  both  bell  and  drum, 
"Morgan  Stanwood,  where  art  thou? 
Here  th'  invaders  come ! " 

"  Morgan  Stanwood  "  need  no  more 

Bell  and  drum-beat  call; 
He  is  one  who,  hearing  once, 
Answers  once  for  all. 


152 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ne'er  the  mower  murmured  then, 

"Half  my  grass  is  mown, 
Homespun  is  n't  soldier-wear, 

Each  may  save  his  own." 

Fallen  scythe  and  aftermath 

Lie  forgotten  now; 
Winter  need  may  come  and  find 

But  a  barren  mow. 

Down  the  musket  comes.    "  Good  wife,  — 

Wife,  a  quicker  flint ! " 
And  the  face  that  questions  face 

Hath  no  color  in  't. 

"Wife,  if  I  am  late  to-night, 

Milk  the  heifer  first ;  — 
Ruth,  if  I'm  not  home  at  all,  — 
Worse  has  come  to  worst." 

Morgan  Stanwood  sped  along, 

Not  the  common  road; 
Over  wall  and  hill-top  straight, 

Straight  to  death,  he  strode; 

Leaving  her  to  hear  at  night 

Tread  of  burdened  men, 
By  the  gate  and  through  the  gate, 

At  the  door,  and  then  — 

Ever  after  that  to  hear, 

When  the  grass  is  sweet, 
Through  the  gate  and  through  the  night, 

Slowly  coming  feet. 

Morgan  Stanwood's  roof  is  gone; 

Here  the  door-step  lies; 
One  may  stand  thereon  and  think,  — 

For  the  thought  will  rise,  — 

Were  we  where  the  meadow  was, 

Mowing  grass  alone, 
Would  we  go  the  way  he  went, 

From  this  very  stone  ? 

Were  we  on  the  door-step  here, 

Parting  for  a  day, 
Would  we  utter  words  as  though 

Parting  were  for  aye? 

Would  we?  Heart,  the  hearth  is  dear, 

Meadow-math  is  sweet; 
Parting  be  as  parting  may, 

After  all,  we  meet. 

HIRAM  RICH. 


Tidings  of  the  fight  reached  Northboro'  early 
in  the  afternoon,  while  a  company  of  minute-men 
were  listening  to  a  patriotic  address.  They  shoul 
dered  their  muskets  and  started  at  once  for  the 
firing  line. 


THE    MINUTE-MEN    OF    NORTH 
BORO' 


[April  19,  1775] 


'TIS 


with 


noonday    by    the    buttonwood, 

slender-shadowed  bud; 
'T  is   April   by   the   Assabet,   whose   banks 

scarce  hold  his  flood; 
When  down  the  road  from  Marlboro'  we 

hear  a  sound  of  speed  — 
A  cracking  whip  and  clanking  hoofs  —  a 

case  of  crying  need! 

And  there  a  dusty  rider  hastes  to  tell  of  flow 
ing  blood, 
Of  troops  a-field,  of  war  abroad,  and  many 

a  desperate  deed. 

The  Minute-Men  of  Northboro'  were  gather 
ing  that  day 

To  hear  the  Parson  talk  of  God,  of  Free 
dom  and  the  State; 
They  throng  about  the  horseman,  drinking 

in  all  he  should  say, 

Beside  the  perfumed  lilacs  blooming  by 
the  Parson's  gate: 

"The  British  march  from  Boston  through 

the  night  to  Lexington; 
Revere  alarms  the  countryside  to  meet  them 

ere  the  sun; 

Upon  the  common,  in  the  dawn,  the  red 
coat  butchers  slay; 

On  Concord  march,  and  there  again  pur 
sue  their  murderous  way; 
We  drive  them  back;    we  follow  on;    they 

have  begun  to  run: 

All  Middlesex  and  Worcester 's  up :  Pray 
God,  ours  is  the  day!" 

The  Minute-Men  of  Northboro'  let  rust  the 

standing  plough, 

The  seed  may  wait,  the  fertile  ground  up- 
smiling  to  the  spring. 
They   seize   their   guns   and   powder-horns; 

there  is  no  halting  now. 
At  thought  of  homes  made  fatherless  by 
order  of  the  King. 


LEXINGTON 


JS3 


The   pewter-ware  is  melted   into  bullets  — 

long  past  due, 
The  flints  are  picked,  the  powder's  dry,  the 

rifles  shine  like  new. 
Within  their  Captain's  yard  enranked  they 

hear  the  Parson's  prayer 
Unto  the  God  of  armies  for  the  battles  they 

must  share; 
He  asks  that  to  their  Fathers  and  their  Altars 

they  be  true, 

For  Country  and  for  Liberty  unswervingly 
to  dare. 

The  Minute-Men  of  Northboro'  set  out  with 

drum  and  fife; 
With  shining  eyes  they've  blest  their  babes 

and  bid  their  wives  good-by. 
The  hands  that  here  release  the  plough  have 

taken  up  a  strife 

That  shall  not  end  until  all  earth  has  heard 
the  battle-cry. 

At  every  town  new  streams  of  men  join  in  the 

mighty  flow; 
At  every  crossroad  comes  the  message  of  a 

fleeing  foe: 
The   British   force,   though   trebled,   fails 

against  the  advancing  tide. 
Our  rifles  speak  from  fence  and  tree  —  in 

front,  on  every  side. 
The    British    fall:    the    Minute-Men   have 

mixed  with  bitterest  woe 
Their  late  vainglorious  vaunting  and  their 
military  pride. 

The  Minute-Men  of  Northboro'  they  boast 

no  martial  air; 
No  uniforms  gleam  in  the  sun  where  on 

and  on  they  plod; 
But  generations  yet  unborn  their  valor  shall 

declare ; 

They  strike  for  Massachusetts  Bay;   they 
serve  New  England's  God. 

The  hirelings  who  would  make  us  slaves  them 
selves  are  backward  hurled, 
On  Worcester  and  on  Middlesex  their  flag's 

forever  furled. 
Theirs  was  the  glinting  pomp  of  war;  ours 

is  the  victor's  prize: 
That  day  of  bourgeoning  has  seen  a  race 

of  freemen  rise. 
A  Nation  born  in  fearlessness  stands  forth 

before  the  world 

With  God  her  shield,  the  Right  her  sword, 
and  Freedom  in  her  eyes. 


The  Minute-Men   of    Northboro'  sit  down 

by  Boston-town; 
They  fight  and  bleed  at  Bunker  Hill;  they 

cheer  for  Washington. 
In  thankfulness  they  speed  their  bolt  against 

the  British  Crown; 

And  take  the  plough  again  in  peace,  their 
warrior's  duty  done. 

WALLACE  RICE. 

LEXINGTON 

[1775] 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways; 

They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded  pain ; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath   His 
praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid: 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plough  mid-furrow  standing  still, 
The  half-ground  corn  grist  in  the  mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 

All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 

The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their 

grave 
Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb: 

The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground. 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 


154 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 

The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove !  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 
Unknown  to  other  rivalries 
Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 

And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


The  news  of  the  fight  at  Lexington  spread  with 
remarkable  rapidity  throughout  the  whole  coun 
try,  and  nearly  every  colony  at  once  took  steps 
for  the  enlistment  and  training  of  a  colonial  militia. 
No  stronger  proof  of  the  electric  condition  of  the 
country  could  be  offered  than  the  way  in  which 
men  everywhere  rushed  to  arms. 


THE   RISING 

From  "  The  Wagoner  of  the  Alleghanies  " 

OUT  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame. 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 

And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
And  through  the  wild  land  everywhere 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet. 
While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington; 
And  Concord,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name. 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swell'd  the  discord  of  the  hour. 


Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkeley  Manor  stood; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk, 

And  some  esteem'd  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Pass'd  mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  naught; 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 


The  pastor  rose;  the  prayer  was  strong; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might,  — 
"The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right!" 
He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compell'd  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 

And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 

The  imaginary  battle-brand. 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  King. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 
Rose,  as  it  seem'd,  a  shoulder  higher; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside. 
And,  lo!  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

A  moment  there  was  awful  pause,  — 
When    Berkeley    cried,    "Cease,    traitor! 

cease ! 
God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace!" 

The  other  shouted,  "Nay,  not  so, 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous  cause; 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours, 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day. 
There  is  a  time  to  fight  and  pray!" 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior  priest  had  order'd  so  — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  soar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  reverberating  blow, 
So  loud  and  clear,  it  seem'd  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before. 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "War!  war!  war!" 


THE   PRIZE   OF  THE   MARGARETTA 


"Who  dares"  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came  — 
"Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom's  name, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die?" 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  answer'd,  "I!" 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


Early  in  May,  news  of  the  fight  at  Lexington 
reached  Machias,  Maine,  and  on  the  llth  a  party 
of  young  men  boarded  the  British  armed  schooner, 
Margaretta,  which  was  in  the  harbor  there,  and 
forced  her  to  surrender,  after  a  loss  of  about  twenty 
on  each  side. 


THE  PRIZE  OF  THE  MARGARETTA1 

[May  11,  1775] 


FOUR  young  men,  of  a  Monday  morn, 
Heard  that  the  flag  of  peace  was  torn; 

Heard  that  "rebels"  with  sword  and  gun, 
Had  fought  the  British  at  Lexington, 

While  they  were  far  from  that  bloody  plain, 
Safe  on  the  green-clad  shores  of  Maine. 

With   eyes   that  glittered,   and   hearts  that 

burned, 
They  talked  of  the  glory  their  friends  had 

earned, 

And  asked  each  other,  "What  can  we  do, 
So  our  hands  may  prove  that  our  hearts  are 
true?" 


Silent  the  Margaretta  lay, 
Out  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay; 

On  her  masts  rich  bunting  gleamed; 
Bravely  the  flag  of  England  streamed. 

The  young  men  gazed  at  the  tempting  prize  — 
They  wistfully  glanced  in  each  other's  eyes ; 

Said  one,  "We  can  lower  that  cloth  of  dread 
And  hoist  the  pine- tree  flag  instead. 

"  We  are  only  boys  to  the  old  and  sage ; 
We  have  not  yet  come  to  manhood's  age; 

i  From  P«ems  for  Young  Americans,  published 
bv  Harper  &  Bros. 


"But  we  can  show  them  that,  when  there's 

need, 
Men  may  follow  and  boys  may  lead." 

Tightly  each  other's  hand  they  pressed, 
Ixmdly  they  cried,  "We  will  do  our  best; 

"The  pine-tree  flag,  ere  day  is  passed, 
Shall  float  from  the  Margaretta's  mast." 


They  ran  to  a  sloop  that  lay  near  by; 
They  roused  their  neighbors,  with  hue  and 
cry; 

They    doffed    their   hats,  gave   three   loud 

cheers, 
And  called  for  a  crew  of  volunteers. 

Their  bold,  brave  spirit  spread  far  and  wide, 
And  men  came  running  from  every  side. 

Curious  armed  were  the  dauntless  ones, 
With  axes,  pitchforks,  scythes,  and  guns; 

They  shouted,  "Ere  yet  this  day  be  passed, 
The    pine-tree   grows   from   the    schooner's 
mast ! " 

IV 

With  sails  all  set,  trim  as  could  be, 
The  Margaretta  stood  out  to  sea. 

With  every  man  and  boy  in  place. 
The  gallant  Yankee  sloop  gave  chase. 

Rippled  and  foamed  the  sunlit  seas; 
Freshened  and  sung  the  soft  May  breeze; 

And  came  from  the  sloop's  low  deck,  "Hur 
ray! 
WTe  're  gaining  on  her !   We  "11  win  the  day ! " 

A  sound  of  thunder,  echoing  wide, 
Came  from  the  Margaretta's  side; 

A  deadly  crash,  and  a  loud  death-yell, 
And  one  of  the  brave  pursuers  fell. 

They  aimed  a  gun  at  the  schooner  then, 
And  sent  the  compliment  back  again ; 

He  who  at  the  helm  of  the  schooner  stood, 
Covered  the  deck  with  his  rich  life-blood. 


156 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Each  burning  to  pay  a  bloody  debt. 
The  crews  of  the  hostile  vessels  met; 

The  Western  nation  now  to  be, 
Made  her  first  fight  upon  the  sea. 

And  not  till  forty  men  were  slain, 
Did  the  pine-tree  flag  a  victory  gain; 

But  at  last  the  hearts  of  the  Britons  quailed, 
And  grandly  the  patriot  arm  prevailed. 

One  of  the  youths,  the  deed  to  crown. 
Grasped  the  colors  and  pulled  them  down; 

And  raised,  'mid  cries  of  wild  delight, 
The  pine-tree  flag  of  blue  and  white. 

And  the  truth  was  shown,  for  the  world  to 

read, 

That  men  may  follow  and  boys  may  lead. 
WILL  CARLETON. 


In  North  Carolina,  the  men  of  Mecklenburg 
County  met.  May  31,  and  adopted  their  famous 
"Resolves,"  declaring  that  each  provincial  con 
gress  was  invested  with  all  legislative  and  execu 
tive  powers  for  the  government  of  the  colonies, 
and  should  exercise  them  independently  of  Great 
Britain,  until  Parliament  should  resign  its  arbi 
trary  pretensions.  It  was  fiom  these  "Resolves" 
that  the  legend  of  the  Mecklenburg  "Declaration 
of  Independence,  said  to  have  been  signed  May 
20,"  originated. 


THE   MECKLENBURG   DECLARA 
TION 

[May  20,  1775] 

OPPRESSED  and  few,  but  freemen  yet, 
The  men  of  Mecklenburg  had  met 

Determined  to  be  free. 

And  crook  no  coward  knee, 
Though  Might  in  front  and  Treason  at  the 

back 
Brought  death  and  ruin  in  their  joint  attack. 

The  tyrant's  heel  was  on  the  land 
When  Polk  convoked  his  gallant  band, 

And  told  in  words  full  strong 

The  bitter  tale  of  wrong. 
Then  came  a  whisper,  like  the  storm's  first 

waves: 
"We  must  be  independent,  or  be  slaves!" 


But,  hark !   What  hurried  rider,  this, 
With  jaded  horse  and  garb  amiss. 

Whose  look  some  woe  proclaims, 

Ere  he  his  mission  names? 
He  rides  amain  from  far-off  Lexington, 
And  tells  the  blood-red  news  of  war  begun! 

Then  Brevard,  Balch,  and  Kennon  spoke 
The  wise  bold  words  that  aye  invoke 
Men  to  defend  the  right 
And  scorn  the  despot's  might; 
Until  from  all  there  rose  the  answering  cry: 
"We  will  be  independent,  or  we  die." 

WThen  Alexander  called  the  vote. 
No  dastard  "nay's"  discordant  note 
Broke  on  that  holy  air  — 
For  dastard  none  was  there! 
But   in   prompt  answer   to  their  country's 

call, 

They  pledged  life,  fortune,  sacred  honor  — 
all! 

In  solemn  hush  the  people  heard; 
With  shout  and  cheer  they  caught  the  word : 
Independence!   In  that  sign 
We  grasp  our  right  divine; 
For    the    tyrant's   might    and    the   traitor's 

hate 

Must  yield  to  men  who  fight  for  God  and 
State! 

The  hero  shout  flew  on  the  breeze; 
Rushed  from  the  mountains  to  the  seas; 

Till  all  the  land  uprose. 

Their  faces  to  their  foes, 
Shook   off   the  thraldom   they  so  long  haci 

borne, 
And  swore  the  oath  that  Mecklenburg  had 


And  well  those  men  maintained  the  right; 
They  kept  the  faith,  and  fought  the  fight; 
Till  Might  and  Treason  both 
Fled  fast  before  the  oath 
Which  brought  the  God  of  Freedom's  battles 

down 

To  place  on  patriot  brows  the  victor's  crown ! 
WILLIAM  C.  ELAM. 


Up  and  down  the  land,  in  every  city,  town,  and 
hamlet,  men  were  drilling  —  with  brooms  and 
corn-stalks,  when  no  muskets  were  available.  The 
storm,  which  had  been  gathering  for  years,  had 
burst  at  last. 


THE   SURPRISE  AT  TICONDEROGA 


157 


A  SONG 

HARK  !  't  is  Freedom  that  calls,  come,  patri 
ots,  awake! 

To  arms,  my  brave  boys,  and  away: 
T  is  Honor,  't  is  Virtue,  't  is  Liberty  calls, 

And  upbraids  the  too  tedious  delay. 
What  pleasure  we  find  in  pursuing  our  foes. 

Thro'  blood  and  thro'  carnage  we'll  fly; 
Then  follow,  we'll  soon  overtake  them,  huzza ! 

The  tyrants  are  seized  on,  they  die! 


Triumphant  returning  with  Freedom  secur'd, 

Like  men,  we'll  be  joyful  and  gay  — 
With  our  wives  and  our  friends,  we'll  sport, 

love,  and  drink, 

And  lose  the  fatigues  of  the  day. 
'T  is  freedom  alone  gives  a  relish  to  mirth, 

But  oppression  all  happiness  sours; 
It  will  smooth  life's  dull  passage,  't  will  slope 

the  descent, 

And  strew  the  way  over  with  flowers. 
Pennsylvania  Journal,  May  31,  1775. 


CHAPTER   III 


THE   COLONISTS   TAKE   THE   OFFENSIVE 


A  rustic  army  of  nearly  twenty  thousand  men 
quickly  gathered  about  Boston  to  besiege  Gage 
there;  but  its  warlike  spirit  ran  too  high  to  be  con 
tented  with  passive  and  defensive  measures.  Bene 
dict  Arnold  suggested  that  expeditions  be  sent 
against  the  fortresses  at  Ticonderoga  and  Crown 
Point,  which  commanded  the  northern  approach 
to  the  Hudson  and  were  of  great  strategic  im 
portance.  The  suggestion  was  at  once  adopted. 
Arnold  was  created  colonel  and  set  out  to  raise  a 
regiment  among  the  Berkshire  Hills.  When  he 
arrived  there,  he  found  that  Ethan  Allen  had 
already  raised  a  force  of  Vermonters  and  started 
for  Ticonderoga. 


THE   GREEN   MOUNTAIN   BOYS 

[May  9,  1775] 


HERE  halt  we  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent 

On  the  rugged  forest-ground. 
And  light  our  fire  with  the  branches  rent 

By  winds  from  the  beeches  round. 
Wild  storms  have  torn  this  ancient  wood, 

But  a  wilder  is  at  hand. 
With  hail  of  iron  and  rain  of  blood, 

To  sweep  and  waste  the  land. 


How  the  dark  wood  rings  with  our  voices 
shrill, 

That  startle  the  sleeping  bird! 
To-morrow  eve  must  the  voice  be  still, 

And  the  step  must  fall  unheard. 
The  Briton  lies  by  the  blue  Champlain, 

In  Ticonderoga's  towers, 
And  ere  the  sun  rise  twice  again, 

Must  they  and  the  lake  be  ours. 


Fill  up  the  bowl  from  the  brook  that  glides 

Where  the  fire-flies  light  the  brake; 
A  ruddier  juice  the  Briton  hides 

In  his  fortress  by  the  lake. 
Build  high  the  fire,  till  the  panther  leap 

From  his  lofty  perch  in  flight, 
And  we'll  strengthen  our  weary  arms  with 
sleep 

For  the  deeds  of  to-morrow  night. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


Arnold  overtook  Allen  and  his  "Green  Moun 
tain  Boys"  on  May  9,  and  accompanied  the  ex 
pedition  as  a  volunteer.  At  daybreak  of  the  10th, 
Allen  and  Arnold,  with  eighty-three  men,  crossed 
Lake  Champlain  and  entered  Ticonderoga  side 
by  side.  The  garrison  was  completely  surprised 
and  surrendered  the  stronghold  without  a  blow. 

THE   SURPRISE   AT   TICONDEROGA 

[May  10,  1775] 

'T  WAS  May -upon  the  mountains,  and  on  the 

airy  wing 
Of  every  floating  zephyr  came  pleasant  sounds 

of  spring,  — 
Of  robins  in  the  orchards,  brooks  running 

clear  and  warm, 
Or  chanticleer's  shrill  challenge  from  busy 

farm  to  farm. 

But,  ranged  in  serried  order,  attent  on  sterner 

noise, 
Stood  stalwart  Ethan  Allen  and  his  "Green 

Mountain  Boys,"  — 


158 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Two  hundred  patriots  listening,  as  with  the 

ears  of  one, 
To  the  echo  of  the  muskets  that  blazed  at 

Lexington ! 

"My   comrades,"  —  thus   the   leader   spake 

to  his  gallant  band,  — 
"The  key  of  all   the  Canadas  is  in  King 

George's  hand, 
Yet,  while  his  careless  warders  our  slender 

armies  mock, 
Good  Yankee  swords  —  God  willing  —  may 

pick  his  rusty  lock!" 

At  every  pass  a  sentinel  was  set  to  guard  the 

way, 
Lest  the  secret  of  their  purpose  some  idle  lip 

betray, 
As  on  the  rocky  highway  they  marched  with 

steady  feet 
To  the  rhythm  of  the  brave  hearts  that  in 

their  bosoms  beat. 

The  curtain  of  the  darkness  closed  'round 

them  like  a  tent, 
When,  travel- worn  and  weary,  yet  not  with 

courage  spent, 
They  halted  on  the  border  of  slumbering 

Champlain, 
And  saw  the  watch  lights  glimmer  across  the 

glassy  plain. 

O  proud  Ticonderoga,  enthroned  amid  the 

hills! 
O  bastions  of  old   Carillon,   the  "Fort  of 

Chiming  Rills!" 
Well  might  your  quiet  garrison  have  trembled 

where  they  lay, 
And,  dreaming,  grasped  their  sabres  against 

the  dawn  of  day! 

In  silence  and  in  shadow  the  boats  were  pushed 

from  shore, 
Strong  hands  laid  down  the  musket  to  ply 

the  muffled  oar; 
The  startled  ripples  whitened  and  whispered 

in  their  wake. 
Then  sank  again,  reposing,  upon  the  peaceful 

lake. 

Fourscore  and  three  they  landed,  just  as  the 

morning  gray 
Gave  warning  on  the  hilltops  to  rest  not  or 

delay; 


Behind,  their  comrades  waited,  the  fortress 

frowned  before, 
And  the  voice  of  Ethan  Allen  was  in  their 

ears  once  more: 

"  Soldiers,  so  long  united  —  dread  scourge 

of  lawless  power! 
Our  country,  torn  and  bleeding,  calls  to  this 

desperate  hour. 
One  choice  alone  is  left  us,  who  hear  that 

high  behest  — 
To  quit  our  claims  to  valor,  or  put  them  to 

the  test! 

"I  lead  the  storming  column  up  yonder  fateful 

hill, 
Yet  not  a  man  shall  follow  save  at  his  ready 

will! 
There  leads  no  pathway  backward  —  't  is 

death  or  victory! 
Poise  each  his  trusty  firelock,  ye  that  will 

come  with  me!" 

From  man  to  man  a  tremor  ran  at  their  cap 
tain's  word 

(Like  the  "going"  in  the  mulberry-trees  that 
once  King  David  heard),  — 

While  his  eagle  glances  sweeping  adown  the 
triple  line, 

Saw,  in  the  glowing  twilight,  each  even  barrel 
shine ! 

"Right  face,  my  men,  and  forward!"  Low- 
spoken,  swift-obeyed! 

They  mount  the  slope  unfaltering  —  they  gain 
the  esplanade! 

A  single  drowsy  sentry  beside  the  wicket- 
gate, 

Snapping  his  aimless  fusil,  shouts  the  alarm 
—  too  late ! 

They    swarm    before    the    barracks  —  the 

quaking  guards  take  flight, 
And  such  a  shout  resultant  resounds  along 

the  height, 
As  rang  from   shore  and  headland  scarce 

twenty  years  ago, 
When  brave  Montcalm's  defenders  charged 

on  a  British  foe! 

Leaps  from  his  bed  in  terror  the  ill-starred 

Delaplace, 
To  meet  across  his  threshold  a  wall  he  may 

not  pass! 


THE   YANKEE'S   RETURN   FROM   CAMP 


159 


The  bayonets'  lightning  flashes  athwart  his 
dazzled  eyes, 

And,  in  tones  of  sudden  thunder,  "Surren 
der!"  Allen  cries. 

"Then  in  whose  name  the  summons?"   the 

ashen  lips  reply. 
The  mountaineer's  stern  visage  turns  proudly 

to  the  sky,  — 
"In  the  name  of  great  Jehovah!"  he  speaks 

with  lifted  sword, 
"And  the  Continental  Congress,  who  wait 

upon  his  word!" 

Light  clouds,  like  crimson  banners,  trailed 

bright  across  the  east, 
As  the  great  sun  rose  in  splendor  above  a 

conflict  ceased, 
Gilding  the  bloodless  triumph  for  equal  rights 

and  laws, 
As  with  the  smile  of  heaven  upon  a  holy 


Still,  wave  on  wave  of  verdure,  the  emerald 

hills  arise. 
Where  once  were  heroes  mustered  from  men 

of  common  guise, 
And  still,  on  Freedom's  roster,  through  all 

her  glorious  years, 
Shine  the  names  of  Ethan  Allen  and  his  bold 

volunteers ! 

MARY  A.  P.  STANSBURY. 


The  Continental  army  at  Cambridge,  meanwhile, 
was  busy  day  and  night,  drilling  and  getting  into 
shape.  It  was  at  this  time  that  "a  gentleman  of 
Connecticut,"  whose  name,  it  is  said,  was  Edward 
Bangs,  described  his  visit  to  the  camp  in  verses 
destined  to  become  famous.  They  were  printed 
originally  as  a  broadside. 


THE  YANKEE'S  RETURN   FROM 
CAMP 

[June,  1775] 

FATHER  and  I  went  down  to  camp. 

Along  with  Captain  Gooding, 
And  there  we  see  the  men  and  boys, 

As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 
Chorus  —  Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankee  Doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 


And  there  we  see  a  thousand  men, 

As  rich  as  'Squire  David; 
And  what  they  wasted  every  day 

I  wish  it  could  be  saved. 

The  'lasses  they  eat  every  day 
Would  keep  an  house  a  winter; 

They  have  as  much  that,  I'll  be  bound 
They  eat  it  when  they're  a  mind  to. 

And  there  we  see  a  swamping  gun, 

Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 
Upon  a  deuced  little  cart, 

A  load  for  father's  cattle. 

And  every  time  they  shoot  it  off, 

It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 
And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 

Only  a  nation  louder. 

I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself 

As  Siah's  underpinning; 
And  father  went  as  nigh  again, 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 

Cousin  Simon  grew  so  bold, 

I  thought  he  would  have  cocked  it; 

It  scared  me  so,  I  shrinked  it  off, 
And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

And  Captain  Davis  had  a  gun, 
He  kind  of  clapt  his  hand  on 't, 

And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  iron 
Upon  the  little  end  on  't. 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 

As  big  as  mother's  bason ; 
And  every  time  they  touched  it  off, 

They  scampered  like  the  nation. 

I  see  a  little  barrel,  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather, 
They  knocked  upon  't  with  little  club: 

And  called  the  folks  together. 

And  there  was  Captain  Washington, 
And  gentlefolks  about  him, 

They  say  he's  grown  so  tarnal  proud 
He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 

He  got  him  on  his  meeting  clothes, 

Upon  a  strapping  stallion, 
He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 

In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 


i6o 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 
They  looked  so  tearing  fine  ah, 

I  wanted  pockily  to  get, 
To  give  to  my  Jemimah. 

I  see  another  snarl  of  men 

A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 

So  tarnal  long,  so  tarnal  deep. 

They  'tended  they  should  hold  me. 

It  scared  me  so,  I  hooked  it  off, 
Nor  stopped,  as  I  remember, 

Nor  turned  about,  till  I  got  home, 
Locked  up  in  mother's  chamber. 

EDWARD  BANGS. 


Howe,  Clinton,  and  Burgoyne  arrived,  May  25, 
with  reinforcements  which  raised  the  British  force 
in  Boston  to  ten  thousand  men,  and  plans  were 
at  once  made  to  extend  the  lines  to  cover  Charles- 
town  and  Dorchester,  the  occupation  of  which  by 
the  Americans  would  render  Boston  untenable. 
Confident  of  victory,  Gage,  on  June  12,  issued  a 
proclamation  offering  pardon  to  all  rebels  who 
should  lay  down  their  arms  and  return  to  their 
allegiance,  save  only  John  Hancock  and  Samuel 
Adams.  At  the  same  time,  all  who  remained  in 
arms  were  threatened  with  the  gallows. 

TOM   GAGE'S   PROCLAMATION; 

OR  BLUSTERING  DENUNCIATION 
(REPLETE  WITH  DEFAMATION) 
THREATENING  DEVASTATION, 
AND  SPEEDY  JUGULATION, 

OF  THE  NEW  ENGLISH  NATION. 

WHO  SHALL  HIS  PIOUS  WAYS  SHUN  ? 

[June  12,  1775) 

WHEREAS  the  rebels  hereabout 
Are  stubborn  still,  and  still  hold  out; 
Refusing  yet  to  drink  their  tea, 
In  spite  of  Parliament  and  me; 
And  to  maintain  their  bubble,  Right, 
Prognosticate  a  real  fight; 
Preparing  flints,  and  guns,  and  ball, 
My  army  and  the  fleet  to  maul; 
Mounting  their  guilt  to  such  a  pitch, 
As  to  let  fly  at  soldiers'  breech; 
Pretending  they  design'd  a  trick, 
Tho'  ordered  not  to  hurt  a  chick; 
But  peaceably,  without  alarm, 
The  men  of  Concord  to  disarm; 
Or,  if  resisting,  to  annoy, 
And  every  magazine  destroy :  — 
All  which,  tho'  long  obliged  to  bear, 
Thro'  want  of  men,  and  not  of  fear; 


I'm  able  now  by  augmentation, 
To  give  a  proper  castigation; 
For  since  th'  addition  to  the  troops, 
Now  reinforc'd  as  thick  as  hops; 
I  can,  like  Jeremey  at  the  Boyne, 
Look  safely  on  —  fight  you,  Burgoyne; 
And  now,  like  grass,  the  rebel  Yankees, 
I  fancy  not  these  doodle  dances :  — 
Yet,  e'er  I  draw  the  vengeful  sword, 
I  have  thought  fit  to  send  abroad, 
This  present  gracious  proclamation, 
Of  purpose  mild  the  demonstration, 
That  whosoe'er  keeps  gun  or  pistol, 
I'll  spoil  the  motion  of  his  systole; 

Or,  whip  his ,  or  cut  his  weason, 

As  haps  the  measure  of  his  treason :  — 
But  every  one  that  will  lay  down 
His  hanger  bright,  and  musket  brown, 
Shall  not  be  beat,  nor  bruis'd,  nor  bang'd, 
Much  less  for  past  offences  hang'd; 
But  on  surrendering  his  toledo, 
Go  to  and  fro  unhurt  as  we  do:  — 
But  then  I  must,  out  of  this  plan,  lock 
Both  Samuel  Adams  and  John  Hancock; 
For  those  vile  traitors  (like  debentures) 
Must  be  tucked  up  at  all  adventures; 
As  any  proffer  of  a  pardon, 
Would  only  tend  those  rogues  to  harden :  — 
But  every  other  mother's  son, 
The  instant  he  destroys  his  gun 
(For  thus  doth  run  the  King's  command)., 
May,  if  he  will,  come  kiss  my  hand. — 
And  to  prevent  such  wicked  game,  as 
Pleading  the  plea  of  ignoramus, 
Be  this  my  proclamation  spread 
To  every  reader  that  can  read :  — 
And  as  nor  law  nor  right  was  known 
Since  my  arrival  in  this  town, 
To  remedy  this  fatal  flaw, 
I  hereby  publish  martial  law. 
Meanwhile,  let  all,  and  every  one 
Who  loves  his  life,  forsake  his  gun; 
And  all  the  council,  by  mandamus, 
Who  have  been  reckoned  so  infamous, 
Return  unto  their  habitation, 
Without  or  let  or  molestation.  — 
Thus  graciously  the  war  I  wage, 
As  witnesseth  my  hand,  —  TOM  GAGE. 
By  command  of  MOTHER  GARY, 

Thomas  Flucker,  Secretary. 
Pennsylvania  Journal,  June  28,  1775. 

The  Committee  of  Safety  received  intelligence 
of  Gage's  plans  and  ordered  out  a  force  of  twelve 
hundred  men  to  take  possession  of  Bunker  Hill  in 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS   TO   THE  AMERICAN   SOLDIERS      161 


Charlestown.  At  sunset  of  June  16  this  brigade 
started  from  Cambridge,  under  command  of 
Colonel  William  Prescott,  a  veteran  of  the  French 
War.  On  reaching  Bunker  Hill,  a  consultation  was 
held,  and  it  was  decided  to  push  on  to  Breed's  Hill, 
and  erect  a  fortification  there.  Breed's  Hill  was 
reached  about  midnight,  and  the  work  of  throw 
ing  up  intrenchments  began  at  once. 


THE   EVE   OF   BUNKER   HILL 

[June  16,  1775] 

T  WAS  June  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  June 
with  the  rose's  breath. 

When  life  is  a  gladsome  thing,  and  a  distant 
dream  is  death; 

There  was  gossip  of  birds  in  the  air,  and  a 
lowing  of  herds  by  the  wood, 

And  a  sunset  gleam  in  the  sky  that  the  heart 
of  a  man  holds  good; 

Then  the  nun-like  Twilight  came,  violet- 
vestured  and  still, 

And  the  night's  first  star  outshone  afar  on  the 
eve  of  Bunker  Hill. 

There  rang  a  cry  through  the  camp,  with  its 

word  upon  rousing  word; 
There  was  never  a  faltering  foot  in  the  ranks 

of  those  that  heard ;  — 
Lads  from  the  Hampshire  hills,  and  the  rich 

Connecticut  vales, 
Sons  of  the  old  Bay  Colony,  from  its  shores 

and  its  inland  dales; 
Swiftly  they  fell  in  line;  no  fear  could  their 

valor  chill; 
Ah,  brave  the  show  as  they  ranged  a-row  on 

the  eve  of  Bunker  Hill ! 

Then  a  deep  voice  lifted  a  prayer  to  the  God 

of  the  brave  and  the  true, 
And  the  heads  of  the  men  were  bare  in  the 

gathering  dusk  and  dew; 
The  heads  of  a  thousand  men  were  bowed  as 

the  pleading  rose,  — 
Smite   Thou,  Lord,  as  of  old  Thou  smotest 

Thy  people's  joes! 
Oh,  nerve  Thy  servants'  arms  to  work  with  a 

mighty  will! 
A  hush,  and  then  a  loud  Amen!  on  the  eve  of 

Bunker  Hill! 

Now  they  are  gone  through  the  night  with 

never  a  thought  of  fame. 
Gone  to  the  field  of  a  fight  that  shall  win  them 

a  deathless  name; 


Some  shall  never  again  behold  the  set  of  the 

sun, 
But  lie  like  the  Concord  slain,  and  the  slain  of 

Lexington, 
Martyrs  to  Freedom's  cause.  Ah,  how  at  their 

deeds  we  thrill, 
The  men  whose  might  made  strong  the  height 

on  the  eve  of  Bunker  Hill! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


June  17  dawned  fair  and  bright,  and  the  in 
trenchments  were  at  once  discovered  by  the 
British.  A  lively  cannonade  was  opened  upon 
them  by  the  ships  in  the  harbor,  but  without  effect. 
At  noon,  three  thousand  veterans  were  ordered 
forward  to  rout  out  the  "peasants,"  and  by  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  had  crossed  the  river  and 
were  ready  to  storm  the  intrenchments.  Com 
manded  by  General  Howe  and  General  Pigot, 
they  advanced  steadily  up  the  hill,  only  to  be  met 
by  so  terrific  a  fire  that  they  gave  way  and  re 
treated  in  disorder. 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS  TO   THE 
AMERICAN   SOLDIERS 

[June  17,  1775] 

STAND!     the  ground's   your   own,   my 

braves ! 

Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it,  —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you !  they  're  a-fire ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !  —  From  the  vale 
On  they  come !  —  And  will  ye  quail  ?  — - 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust! 

Die  we  may,  —  and  die  we  must ; 

But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed. 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell! 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 


162 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  pause  followed,  during  which  Charlestown 
was  set  on  fire  by  shells  from  the  fleet  and  was 
soon  in  a  roaring  blaze.  Then  a  second  time  the 
British  advanced  to  the  assault;  again  the  Ameri 
cans  held  their  fire,  and  again,  at  thirty  yards, 
poured  into  the  Redcoats  so  deadly  a  volley  that 
they  were  forced  to  retreat. 

THE   BALLAD   OF   BUNKER  HILL 

WE  lay  in  the  Trenches  we'd  dug  in  the 

Ground 

While  Phcebus  blazed  down  from  his  glory- 
lined  Car, 
And  then  from  the  lips  of  our  Leader  re- 

nown'd, 

These  lessons  we  learn'd  in  the  Science  of 
War. 

"Let  the  Foeman  draw  nigh, 
Till  the  white  of  his  Eye 
Is  in  range  with  your  Rifles,  and  then,  Lads,  let 

fly! 

And  shew  to  Columbia,  to  Britain,  and  Fame, 
How  Justice  smiles  aweful.  when  Freemen 
take  aim!" 

The  Regulars  from  Town  to  the  Foot  of  the  Hill 
Came  in  Barges  and  Rowboats,  some  great 

and  some  small, 
But  they  potter'd  and  dawdl'd,  and  twaddled, 

until 

We  fear'd  there  would  be  no  Attack  after  all ! 
Two  men  in  red  Coats 
Talk'd  to  one  in  long  Boots, 
And  all  of  them  pinted  and  gestured  like  Coo/5, 
And  we  said,  —  as  the  Boys  do  upon  Training- 
Day — 

"If  they  waste  all  their  Time  so,  the  Sham- 
fight  won't  pay." 

But  when  they  got  Ready,  and  All  came  along, 
The  way  they  march'd  up  the  Hill-side 

was  n't  slow, 
But  we  were  not  a-fear'd,  and  we  welcomed 

'em  strong, 

Held  our  Fire  till  the  Word,  and  then  laid 
the  Lads  low ! 

.  .  .  But  who  shall  declare 
The  End  of  the  Affair  ? 
At  Sundown  there  was  n't  a  Man  of  us  there! 
But  we  did  n't  depart  till  we'd  given  them 

Some  I 

When  we  burned  up  our  Powder,  we  had  to  go 
Home  ! 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


So  long  a  time  elapsed  after  the  second  assault 
that  it  seemed  for  a  time  that  the  Americans 
would  be  left  in  possession  of  the  field.  In  the  con 
fusion  of  the  moment,  no  reinforcements  were  sent 
them,  and  Prescott,  to  his  dismay,  discovered  that 
his  supply  of  powder  and  ball  was  nearly  ex 
hausted. 

BUNKER   HILL 

"NoT  yet,  not  yet;  steady,  steady !" 
On  came  the  foe,  in  even  line: 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  thrice  paces  nine. 
We  looked  into  their  eyes.   "Ready!" 
A  sheet  of  flame!   A  roll  of  death  ! 
They  fell  by  scores ;  we  held  our  breath  1 
Then  nearer  still  they  came; 
Another  sheet  of  flame! 
And  brave  men  fled  who  never  fled  before. 
Immortal  fight ! 
Foreshadowing  flight 
Back  to  the  astounded  shore. 

Quickly  they  rallied,  reinforced. 
Mid  louder  roar  of  ship's  artillery, 
And  bursting  bombs  and  whistling  musketry 
And  shouts  and  groans,  anear,  afar, 
All  the  new  din  of  dreadful  war, 
Through    their   broad    bosoms    calmly 

coursed 

The  blood  of  those  stout  farmers,  aiming 
For     freedom,    manhood's     birthrights 

claiming. 

Onward  once  more  they  came; 
Another  sheet  of  deathful  flame! 
Another  and  another  still : 
They  broke,  they  fled: 
Again  they  sped 
Down  the  green,  bloody  hill. 

Howe,  Burgoyne,  Clinton,  Gage, 
Stormed  with  commander's  rage. 
Into  each  emptied  barge 
They  crowd  fresh  men  for  a  new  charge 

Up  that  great  hill. 
Again  their  gallant  blood  we  spill: 
That  volley  was  the  last: 
Our  powder  failed. 
On  three  sides  fast 
The  foe  pressed  in;  nor  quailed 
A  man.    Their  barrels  empty,  with  musket* 

stocks 
They  fought,  and    gave    death-dealing 

knocks. 

Till  Prescott  ordered  the  retreat. 
Then  Warren  fell ;  and  through  a  leaden  sleet, 
Frori  Bunker  Hill  and  Breed, 


GRANDMOTHER'S   STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE      163 


Stark,  Putnam,  Pomeroy,  Knowlton,  Read, 
Led  off  the  remnant  of  those  heroes  true, 
The  foe  too  shattered  to  pursue. 

The  ground  they  gained;  but  we 
The  victory. 

The  tidings  of  that  chosen  band 
Flowed  in  a  wave  of  power 
Over  the  shaken,  anxious  land. 
To  men,  to  man,  a  sudden  dower. 
From  that  stanch,  beaming  hour 
History  took  a  fresh  higher  start; 
And  when  the  speeding  messenger,  that  bare 
The  news  that  strengthened  every  heart, 
Met  near  the  Delaware 
Riding  to  take  command, 
The  leader,  who  had  just  been  named, 

Who  was  to  be  so  famed, 
The  steadfast,  earnest  Washington 

With  hand  uplifted  cries, 
His  great  soul  flashing  to  his  eyes, 
"Our  liberties  are  safe;  the  cause  is  won." 
A  thankful  look  he  cast  to  heaven,  and 

then 

His  steed  he  spurred,  in  haste  to  lead  such 
noble  men. 

GEORGE  H.  CALVERT. 


There  was,  in  fact,  a  difference  of  opinion  among 
the  British  generals  as  to  continuing  the  assault. 
But  Howe  insisted  that  a  third  attempt  be  made, 
and  at  five  o'clock  it  was  ordered.  For  a  moment, 
the  advancing  column  was  again  shaken  by  the 
American  fire,  but  the  last  cartridges  were  soon 
spent,  and,  at  the  bayonet  point,  the  Americans 
were  driven  from  their  works  and  forced  to  re 
treat  across  Charlestown  neck. 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY    OF 
BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE 

AS  SHE  SAW   IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY 

*T  is  like  stirring    living    embers  when,  at 

eighty,  one  remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "the 

times  that  tried  men's  souls;" 
When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell 

the  Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they're 

burning  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April 

running  battle; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their 

red  coats  still; 


But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day 

looms  up  before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the 

slopes  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

'T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning,  when 

the  first  thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the 

river  and  the  shore: 
"Child,"  says  grandma,  "what's  the  matter, 

what  is  all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to 

murder  us  once  more?" 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the 

midst  of  all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns 

began  to  roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the 

slaughter  and  the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with 

their  bullets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't 

you  fret  and  worry  any, 
For  I'll  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether 

this  is  work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be 

gone  a  minute "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.  I  was  gone  the 

livelong  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass 

grimacing; 
Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling 

half-way  to  my  heels; 
God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there's 

blood  around  her  flowing, 
How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet 

household  feels! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping;  and  I  knew 
it  was  the  stumping 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that 
wooden  leg  he  wore, 

With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was 
lucky  I  had  found  him, 

So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Cor 
poral  marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the 

old  soldier  and  his  people; 
The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed 

the  creaking  stair. 


164 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  oh,  so  close 
it  mads  me  shiver !  — 

Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yes 
terday  was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it;  well  we  knew 

who  stood  behind  it, 
Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us, 

and  the  stubborn  walls  were  dumb: 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking 

wild  upon  each  other, 
And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they 

said,  THE  HOUR  HAS  COME! 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel 
had  we  tasted 

And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with 
the  cannons'  deafening  thrill, 

When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the 
rampart  strode  sedately; 

It  was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me ;  he  com 
manded  on  the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we 
saw  his  manly  figure, 

With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  standing 
up  so  straight  and  tall ; 

Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling 
out  for  pleasure. 

Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon- 
shot  he  walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the 

redcoats'  ranks  were  forming; 
At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving 

to  the  piers; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed   and   glistened, 

as  we  looked  far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the 

belted  grenadiers! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer 
(it  seemed  faint-hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knap 
sacks  on  their  backs, 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after 
a  sea-fight's  slaughter, 

Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed 
like  blood  along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and 
again  they  formed  in  order; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came 
for  soldiers,  soldiers  still : 


The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women 

faint  and  fasting,  — 
At  last  they're  moving,  marching,  marching 

proudly  up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along 

the  lines  advancing,  — 
Now  the  front  rank   fires  a  volley,  —  they 

have  thrown  away  their  shot; 
For  behind   their  earthwork   lying,   all   the 

balls  above  them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry ;  so  they  wait  and 

answer  not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would 

swear  sometimes  and  tipple),  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old 

French  war)  before,  — 
Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they 

all  were  hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the 

dusty  belfry  floor :  — 

"Oh!  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King 

George's  shillin's, 
But  ye  Ml  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  'rebel' 

falls; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're 

as  safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you've 

splintered  with  your  balls!" 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and 

trepidation 
Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are 

well-nigh  breathless  all; 
Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the 

rickety  belfry  railing, 
We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the 

waves  against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  are 
nearer,  —  nearer,  —  nearer, 

When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  — 
then  a  crash  —  the  steeple  shakes  — 

The  deadly  truce  is  ended;  the  tempest's 
shroud  is  rended; 

Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thun 
dercloud  it  breaks! 

Oh  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue- 
black  smoke  blows  over! 

The  redcoats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a 
mower  rakes  his  hay; 


GRANDMOTHER'S   STORY  OF   BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE     165 


Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  head- 
Ion";  crowd  is  flying 

Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered 
into  spray. 

Then  we  cried,  "  The  troops  are  routed !  they 

are  beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over!" — Ah! 

the  grim  old  soldier's  smile! 
"Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ?"  (we  could 

hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
"Are  they  beaten  ?    Are  they  beaten  ?  ARE 

they  beaten?"  —  "Wait  a  while." 

Oh  the  trembling  and  the  terror !  for  too  soon 

we  saw  our  error: 
They  are   baffled,   not  defeated;   we  have 

driven  them  back  in  vain; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round 

the  colors  that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen,  silent  fortress  turn  their 

belted  breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs  of 

Charlestown  blazing! 
They  have  fired  the  harmless  village;  in  an 

hour  it  will  be  down! 
The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain 

his  fire  and  brimstone  round  them,  — 
The  robbing,  murdering  redcoats,  that  would 

burn  a  peaceful  town! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn;  we 

can  see  each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with 

the  slanting  walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in 

noiseless  haste  departed  ? 
Are   they   panic-struck   and    helpless?    Are 

they  palsied  or  asleep? 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under !  scarce 

a  rod  the  foes  asunder! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them!  up  the 

earthwork  they  will  swarm! 
But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken,  when 

the  ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the 

vengeance  of  the  storm! 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted 

backwards  to  the  water. 
Fly  Pigot's  running  heroes  and  the  frightened 

braves  of  Howe; 


And  we  shout,  "At  last  they're  done  for,  it's 
their  barges  they  have  run  for: 

They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten;  and  the 
battle's  over  now!  " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the 

rough  old  soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what 

we  would  ask: 
"  Not  sure,"  he  said ;  "  keep  quiet,  —  once 

more,  I  guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here's   damnation   to   the   cut-throats!"  — 

then  he  handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "Gal,  you're  looking  shaky;  have 

a  drop  of  old  Jamaiky; 
I'm  afeard   there'll  be  more  trouble   afore 

the  job  is  done;" 
So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow;  dreadful 

faint  I  felt  and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the 

firing  was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched 

a  calm  clock  dial, 
As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  —  they 

were  creeping  round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man  said,  "They're  forming 

with  their  bagonets  fixed  for  storming: 
It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a-coming,  —  they 

will  try  the  works  once  more." 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames 
behind  them  glaring. 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array 
they  come; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's 
fold  uncoiling,  — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  re 
verberating  drum! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell 
the  fearful  story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as 
a  sea  breaks  over  a  deck; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn- 
out  men  retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like 
the  swimmers  from  a  wreck? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  for  me, 

they  say  I  fainted. 
And  the  wooden-legged  old  Corporal  stumped 

with  me  down  the  stair: 


i66 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the 
evening  lamps  were  lighted,  — 

On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying;  his  bleeding 
breast  was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "Send 

for  WARREN  !  hurry !  hurry ! 
Tell  him  here's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he'll 

come  and  dress  his  wound!" 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale 

of  death  and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the 

dark  and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was, 

where  the  place  from  which  he  came 

was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and 

had  left  him  at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us ;  but  't  was  one 

of  our  brave  fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which 

the  dying  soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they 

gathered  round  him  crying,  — 
And  they  said,  "Oh,  how  they'll  miss  him!" 

and,  "What  will  his  mother  do?" 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's 

that  has  been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "  Mother ! "  —  and  — 

I  saw  his  eyes  were  blue. 

"  Why,  grandma,  how  you  're  winking ! "  Ah, 
my  child,  it  sets  me  thinking 

Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.  Well,  he  some 
how  lived  along; 

So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed 
him  like  a  —  mother, 

Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy- 
cheeked,  and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the 
pleasant  summer  weather,  — 

"Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?" 
Just  your  own,  my  little  dear,  — 

There's  his  picture  Copley  painted:  we  be 
came  so  well  acquainted, 

That  —  in  short,  that 's  why  I  'm  grandma, 
and  you  children  all  are  here! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


In  this  last  charge,  the  Americans  met  with  an 
irreparable  loss  iti  the  death  of  General  Joseph 
Warren,  who  was  shot  through  the  head  as  he 


lingered  on  the  field,  loath  to  join  in  the  retreat. 
He  had  hastened  to  the  battlefield  in  the  early 
morning,  replying  to  the  remonstrance  of  a  friend, 
"Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori."  He  had 
just  been  appointed  major-general,  but  refused 
the  command  tendered  him  by  Prescott,  saying 
that  he  was  only  too  glad  to  serve  as  a  volunteer 
aid. 

THE   DEATH   OF   WARREN 

[June  17,  1775] 

WHEN  the  war-cry  of  Liberty  rang  through 
the  land, 

To  arms  sprang  our  fathers  the  foe  to  with 
stand; 

On  old  Bunker  Hill  their  entrenchments  they 
rear. 

When  the  army  is  joined  by  a  young  volunteer. 

"Tempt  not  death!"  cried  his  friends;  but 
he  bade  them  good-by, 

Saying, "  Oh !  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die ! " 

The  tempest  of  battle  now  rages  and  swells, 
'Mid  the  thunder  of  cannon,  the  pealing  of 

bells; 
And  a  light,  not  of  battle,  illumes  yonder 

spire  — 

Scene  of  woe  and  destruction ;  —  't  is  Charles- 
town  on  fire! 

The  young  volunteer  heedeth  not  the  sad  cry 
But  murmurs,  "'Tis  sweet  for  our  country 
to  die!" 

With  trumpets  and  banners  the  foe  draweth 

near: 

A  volley  of  musketry  checks  their  career ! 
With  the  dead  and  the  dying  the  hill-side  ia 

strown, 
And  the  shout  through  our  lines  is,  "The  day 

is  our  own!" 
"Not  yet,"  cries  the  young  volunteer,  "do 

'they  fly ! 
Stand  firm !  —  it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to 

die!" 

Now  our  powder  is  spent,  and  they  rally 

again ;  — 
"Retreat!"  says  our  chief,  "since  unarmed 

we  remain!" 
But  the  young  volunteer  lingers  yet  on  the 

field. 

Reluctant  to  fly,  and  disdaining  to  yield. 
A  shot!  Ah!  he  falls!  but  his  life's  latest  sigh 
Is,  "'T  is  sweet,  oh,  't  is  sweet  for  our  country 

to  die!" 


THE  BATTLE   OF   BUNKER  HILL 


167 


And  thus  Warren  fell!    Happy  death!  noble 

fall! 

To  perish  for  country  at  Liberty's  call! 
Should  the  flag  of  invasion  profane  evermore 
The  blue  of  our  seas  or  the  green  of  our  shore. 
May  the  hearts  of  our   people  reecho  that 

cry,  — 
'"Tis  sweet,  oh,  'tis  sweet  for  our  country 

to  die!" 

EPES  SARGENT. 


The  British  loss  in  killed  and  wounded  was 
1054,  while  the  American  loss,  incurred  mainly 
in  the  last  harid-to-hand  struggle,  was  449.  The 
British  had  gained  the  victory,  but  the  moral 
advantage  was  wholly  with  the  Americans. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   BUNKER   HILL 

COMPOSED   BY   A   BRITISH   OFFICER,   THE   DAY 
AFTER   THE   BATTLE 

IT  was  on  the  seventeenth,  by  break  of  day. 

The  Yankees  did  surprise  us, 
With  their  strong  works  they  had  thrown  up 

To  burn  the  town  and  drive  us. 

But  soon  we  had  an  order  come, 

An  order  to  defeat  them; 
Like  rebels  stout,  they  stood  it  out. 

And  thought  we  ne'er  could  beat  them. 

About  the  hour  of  twelve  that  day, 

An  order  came  for  marching. 
With  three  good  flints  and  sixty  rounds, 

Each  man  hoped  to  discharge  them. 

We  marched  down  to  the  Long  Wharf, 
Where  boats  were  ready  waiting; 

With  expedition  we  embark'd, 
Our  ships  kept  cannonading. 

And  when  our  boats  all  filled  were 

With  officers  and  soldiers. 
With  as  good  troops  as  England  had, 

To  oppose  who  dare  controul  us  ? 

And  when  our  boats  all  filled  were, 

We  row'd  in  line  of  battle, 
Where  showers  of  ball  like  hail  did  fly, 

Our  cannon  loud  did  rattle. 

There  was  Copps'  Hill  battery,  near  Charles- 
town, 
Our  twenty-fours  they  played; 


And  the  three  frigates  in  the  stream. 
That  very  well  behaved. 

The  Glasgow  frigate  clear'd  the  shore, 

All  at  the  time  of  landing. 
With  her  grape-shot  and  cannon-balls, 

No  Yankee  e'er  could  stand  them. 

And  when  we  landed  on  the  shore, 

We  draw'd  up  all  together; 
The  Yankees  they  all  mann'd  their  works, 

And  thought  we'd  ne'er  come  thither. 

But  soon  they  did  perceive  brave  Howe, 
Brave  Howe,  our  bold  commander; 

With  grenadiers,  and  infantry, 
We  made  them  to  surrender. 

Brave  William  Howe,  on  our  right  wing, 
Cried,  "Boys,  fight  on  like  thunder; 

You  soon  will  see  the  rebels  flee, 
With  great  amaze  and  wonder." 

Now  some  lay  bleeding  on  the  ground, 

And  some  fell  fast  a-running 
O'er  hills  and  dales,  and  mountains  high, 

Crying,  "Zounds!  brave  Howe's  a-coming." 

They  'gan  to  play  on  our  left  wing, 

Where  Pigot,  he  commanded; 
But  we  returned  it  back  again, 

With  courage  most  undaunted. 

To  our  grape-shot  and  musket-balls, 
To  which  they  were  but  strangers. 

They  thought  to  come  with  sword  in  hand. 
But  soon  they  found  their  danger. 

And  when  their  works  we  got  into, 
And  put  them  to  the  flight,  sirs. 

Some  of  them  did  hide  themselves, 
And  others  died  of  fright,  sirs. 

And  when  their  works  we  got  into, 

Without  great  fear  or  danger, 
The  works  they'd  made  were  firm  and  strong, 

The  Yankees  are  great  strangers. 

But  as  for  our  artillery. 

They  all  behaved  dinty; 
For  while  our  ammunition  held, 

We  gave  it  to  them  plenty. 

But  our  conductor,  he  got  broke 
For  his  misconduct  sure,  sir; 


i68 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  shot  he  sent  for  twelve-pound  guns, 
Were  made  for  twenty-fours,  sir. 

There's  some  in  Boston  pleased  to  say, 

As  we  the  field  were  taking, 
We  went  to  kill  their  countrymen. 

While  they  their  hay  were  making. 

For  such  stout  whigs  I  never  saw, 

To  hang  them  all  I'd  rather; 
For  making  hay  with  musket-balls, 

And  buckshot  mixt  together. 

Brave  Howe  is  so  considerate, 
As  to  guard  against  all  dangers: 

He  allows  us  half  a  pint  a  day  — 
To  rum  we  are  no  strangers. 

Long  may  he  live  by  land  and  sea, 

For  he's  belov'd  by  many; 
The  name  of  Howe  the  Yankees  dread, 

We  see  it  very  plainly. 

And  now  my  song  is  at  an  end: 

And  to  conclude  my  ditty, 
It  is  the  poor  and  ignorant, 

And  only  them,  I  pity. 

But  as  for  their  king,  John  Hancock, 

And  Adams,  if  they're  taken. 
Their  heads  for  signs  shall  hang  up  high, 

Upon  that  hill  call'd  Beacon. 


On  July  2,  1775,  George  Washington,  who  had, 
a  fortnight  before,  been  appointed  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  Continental  army  by  the  Congress 
then  assembled  in  Philadelphia,  arrived  at  Cam 
bridge,  and  on  the  following  day,  under  the  shade 
of  the  great  elm  which  is  still  standing  near  Cam 
bridge  Common,  he  took  command  of  the  sixteen 
thousand  men  composing  the  American  forces. 


THE   NEW-COME   CHIEF 

From  "  Under  the  Old  Elm" 
[July3.  1775) 

BENEATH  our  consecrated  elm 

A  century  ago  he  stood, 

Famed  vaguely  for  that  old  fight  in  the  wood 

Whose  red  surge  sought,  but  could  not  over 
whelm 

The  life  foredoomed  to  wield  our  rough- 
hewn  helm :  — 


From  colleges,  where  now  the  gown 
To  arms  had  yielded,  from  the  town. 
Our  rude  self-summoned  levies  flocked  to  see 
The  new-come  chief  and  wonder  which  was 

he. 
No  need  to  question  long;  close-lipped  and 

tall, 

Long  trained  in  murder-brooding  forests  lone 
To  bridle  others'  clamors  and  his  own, 
Firmly  erect,  he  towered  above  them  all, 
The  incarnate  discipline  that  was  to  free 
With  iron  curb  that  armed  democracy. 

A  motley  rout  was  that  which  came  to  stare, 
In  raiment  tanned  by  years  of  sun  and  storm, 
Of  every  shape  that  was  not  uniform, 
Dotted  with  regimentals  here  and  there; 
An  army  all  of  captains,  used  to  pray 
And  stiff  in  fight,  but  serious  drill's  despair, 
Skilled  to  debate  their  orders,  not  obey; 
Deacons  were  there,  selectmen,  men  of  note 
In  half -tamed  hamlets  ambushed  round  with 

woods, 

Ready  to  settle  Freewill  by  a  vote. 
But  largely  liberal  to  its  private  moods ; 
Prompt  to  assert  by  manners,  voice,  or  pen, 
Or  ruder  arms,  their  rights  as  Englishmen, 
Nor  much  fastidious  as  to  how  and  when: 
Yet  seasoned  stuff  and  fittest  to  create 
A  thought-staid  army  or  a  lasting  state: 
Haughty  they  said  he  was,  at  first;  severe; 
But  owned,  as  all  men  own,  the  steady  hand 
Upon  the  bridle,  patient  to  command. 
Prized,  as  all  prize,  the  justice  pure  from 

fear, 
And  learned  to  honor  first,  then  love  him,  then 

revere. 

Such  power  there  is  in  clear-eyed  self-re 
straint 

And  purpose  clean  as  light  from  every  selfish 
taint. 


Never  to  see  a  nation  born 

Hath  been  given  to  mortal  man, 

Unless  to  those  who,  on  that  summer  morn, 

Gazed  silent  when  the  great  Virginian 

Unsheathed  the  sword  whose  fatal  flash 

Shot  union  through  the  incoherent  clash 

Of  our  loose  atoms,  crystallizing  them 

Around  a  single  will's  unpliant  stem. 

And  making  purpose  of  emotion  rash. 

Out  of  that  scabbard  sprang,  as  from  its 

womb, 
Nebulous  at  first  but  hardening  to  a  stan 


THE  TRIP  TO    CAMBRIDGE 


169 


Through  mutual  share  of  sunburst  and  of 

gloom, 
The  common  faith  that  made  us  what  we  are. 

That  lifted  blade  transformed  our  jangling 

clans. 

Till  then  provincial,  to  Americans, 
And  made  a  unity  of  wildering  plans; 
Here  was  the  doom  fixed;  here  is  marked  the 

date 

When  this  New  World  awoke  to  man's  estate, 
Burnt  its  last  ship  and  ceased  to  look  behind : 
Nor  thoughtless  was  the  choice;  no  love  or 

hate 
Could  from  its  poise  move  that  deliberate 

mind, 

Weighing  between  too  early  and  too  late 
Those  pitfalls  of  the  man  refused  by  Fate: 
His  was  the  impartial  vision  of  the  great 
Who  see  not  as  they  wish,  but  as  they  find. 
He  saw  the  dangers  of  defeat,  nor  less 
The  incomputable  perils  of  success; 
The  sacred  past  thrown  by,  an  empty  rind; 
The  future,   cloud-land,  snare  of  prophets 

blind; 

The  waste  of  war,  the  ignominy  of  peace; 
On  either  hand  a  sullen  rear  of  woes. 
Whose  garnered  lightnings  none  could  guess, 
Piling     its     thunder-heads     and     muttering 

"Cease!" 

Yet  drew  not  back  his  hand,  but  gravely  chose 
The  seeming-desperate  task  whence  our  new 

nation  rose. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


Tory  balladists  found  rich  material  for  their 
rhymes  in  the  undisciplined  and  motley  army  of 
which  Washington  was  the  head,  but,  strangely 
enough,  the  commander  himself  was  the  object 
of  very  few  attacks  of  this  kind.  The  following 
is  almost  the  only  one  which  has  survived. 


THE  TRIP  TO   CAMBRIDGE 

[July  3.  1775] 

WHEN  Congress  sent  great  Washington 
All  clothed  in  power  and  breeches, 

To  meet  old  Britain's  warlike  sons 
And  make  some  rebel  speeches; 

'T  was  then  he  took  his  gloomy  way 
Astride  his  dapple  donkeys. 

And  travelled  well,  both  night  and  day, 
Until  he  reach'd  the  Yankees. 


Away  from  camp,  'bout  three  miles  off, 

From  Lily  he  dismounted, 
His  sergeant  brush'd  his  sun-burnt  wig 

While  he  the  specie  counted. 

All  prinked  up  in  full  bag-wig; 

The  shaking  notwithstanding. 
In  leathers  tight,  oh!  glorious  sight! 

He  reach'd  the  Yankee  landing. 

The  women  ran,  the  darkeys  too; 

And  all  the  bells,  they  tolled; 
For  Britain's  sons,  by  Doodle  doo, 

We  're  sure  to  be  —  consoled. 

Old  mother  Hancock  with  a  pan 

All  crowded  full  of  butter, 
Unto  the  lovely  Georgius  ran. 

And  added  to  the  splutter. 

Says  she,  "Our  brindle  has  just  calved, 
And  John  is  wondrous  happy. 

He  sent  this  present  to  you,  dear, 
As  you're  the  'country's  papa.'"  — 

"You'll  butter  bread  and  bread  butter, 

But  do  not  butt  your  speeches. 
You'll  butter  bread  and  bread  butter, 
But  do  not  grease  your  breeches." 

Full  many  a  child  went  into  camp, 
All  dressed  in  homespun  kersey, 

To  see  the  greatest  rebel  scamp 
That  ever  cross'd  o'er  Jersey. 

The  rebel  clowns,  oh!  what  a  sight! 

Too  awkward  was  their  figure. 
'T  was  yonder  stood  a  pious  wight, 

And  here  and  there  a  nigger. 

Upon  a  stump  he  placed  (himself). 

Great  Washington  did  he, 
And  through  the  nose  of  lawyer  Close, 

Proclaimed  great  Liberty. 

The  patriot  brave,  the  patriot  fair, 
From  fervor  had  grown  thinner. 

So  off  they  march'd,  with  patriot  zeal, 
And  took  a  patriot  dinner. 

The  Colonials,  on  the  other  hand,  among  whom 
he  seems  to  have  inspired  almost  instant  respect 
and  affection,  made  him  the  subject  of  many 
songs,  the  most  popular  of  which  was  Sewall's 
"War  and  Washington,"  which  was  sung  by  sol 
diers  and  civilians  during  the  whole  Revolution. 


170 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


WAR   AND   WASHINGTON 

VAIN  Britons,  boast  no  longer  with  proud 
indignity, 

By  land  your  conquering  legions,  your  match 
less  strength  at  sea, 

Since  we,  your  braver  sons  incensed,  our 
swords  have  girded  on. 

Huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  huzza,  for  war  and 
Washington. 

Urged  on  by  North  and  vengeance  those  val 
iant  champions  came. 

Loud  bellowing  Tea  and  Treason,  and  George 
was  all  on  flame, 

Yet  sacrilegious  as  it  seems,  we  rebels  still  live 
on, 

And  laugh  at  all  their  empty  puffs,  huzza  for 
Washington ! 

Still  deaf  to  mild  entreaties,  still  blind  to  Eng 
land's  good, 

You  have  for  thirty  pieces  betrayed  your  coun 
try's  blood. 

Like  Esop's  greedy  cur  you  '11  gain  a  shadow 
for  your  bone, 

Yet  find  us  fearful  shades  indeed  inspired  by 
Washington. 

Mysterious !  unexampled !  incomprehensible ! 
The  blundering  schemes  of  Britain  their  folly, 

pride,  and  zeal. 
Like  lions  how  ye  growl  and  threat !  mere  asses 

have  you  shown, 
And  ye  shall  share  an  ass's  fate,  and  drudge 

for  Washington! 

Your  dark  unfathomed  councils  our  weakest 
heads  defeat, 

Our  children  rout  your  armies,  our  boats  de 
stroy  your  fleet. 

And  to  complete  the  dire  disgrace,  cooped  up 
within  a  town, 

You  live  the  scorn  of  all  our  host,  the  slaves  of 
Washington ! 

Great  Heaven !  is  this  the  nation  whose  thun 
dering  arms  were  hurled. 

Through  Europe,  Afric,  India?  whose  navy 
ruled  a  world  ? 

The  lustre  of  your  former  deeds,  whole  ages 
of  renown, 

Lost  in  a  moment,  or  transferred  to  us  and 
Washington ! 


Yet  think  not  thirst  of  glory  unsheaths  our 

vengeful  swords 
To  rend  your  bands  asunder,  or  cast  away 

your  cords, 
'T  is  heaven-born  freedom  fires  us  all,  and 

strengthens  each  brave  son, 
From  him  who  humbly  guides  the  plough,  to 

god-like  Washington. 

For  this,  oh  could  our  wishes  your  ancient  rage 
inspire. 

Your  armies  should  be  doubled,  in  numbers, 
force,  and  fire. 

Then  might  the  glorious  conflict  prove  which 
best  deserved  the  boon, 

America  or  Albion,  a  George  or  Washing 
ton! 

Fired  with  the  great  idea,  our  Fathers'  shades 

would  rise, 
To  view  the  stern  contention,  the  gods  desert 

their  skies; 
And  Wolfe,  'midst  hosts  of  heroes,  superior 

bending  down. 
Cry  out  with  eager  transport,  God  save  great 

Washington ! 

Should  George,  too  choice  of  Britons,  to  for 
eign  realms  apply, 

And  madly  arm  half  Europe,  yet  still  we  would 
defy 

Turk,  Hessian,  Jew,  and  Infidel,  or  all  those 
powers  in  one, 

While  Adams  guards  our  senate,  our  camp 
great  Washington! 

Should  warlike  weapons  fail  us,  disdaining 
slavish  fears, 

To  swords  we'll  beat  our  ploughshares,  our 
pruning-hooks  to  spears, 

And  rush,  all  desperate,  on  our  foe,  nor 
breathe  till  battle  won, 

Then  shout,  and  shout  America !  and  conquer 
ing  Washington! 

Proud  France  should  view  with  terror,  and 
haughty  Spain  revere, 

While  every  warlike  nation  would  court  alli 
ance  here; 

And  George,  his  minions  trembling  round, 
dismounting  from  his  throne 

Pay  homage  to  America  and  glorious  Wash 
ington  ! 

JONATHAN  MITCHELL  SEWALL. 


MONTGOMERY  AT   QUEBEC 


171 


While  the  army  at  Cambridge  was  getting  into 
shape  to  assume  the  offensive,  the  British  were 
by  no  means  idle.  They  recovered  St.  John's, 
which  Arnold  had  captured  in  May,  and  a  fleet 
under  Admiral  Wallace  ravaged  the  shores  of 
Narragansett  Bay.  On  October  7,  1775,  he  bom 
barded  the  town  of  Bristol,  which  had  refused  to 
furnish  him  with  supplies,  —  an  incident  which 
is  described  in  one  of  the  most  ingenuous  and 
amusing  of  Revolutionary  ballads. 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  OF  BRISTOL 

[October  7,  1775] 

IN  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-five, 
Our  Bristol  town  was  much  surprised 
By  a  pack  of  thievish  villains. 
That  will  not  work  to  earn  their  livings. 

October  't  was  the  seventh  day, 
As  I  have  heard  the  people  say, 
Wallace,  his  name  be  ever  curst. 
Came  on  our  harbor  just  at  dusk. 

And  there  his  ship  did  safely  moor, 
And  quickly  sent  his  barge  on  shore, 
With  orders  that  should  not  be  broke, 
Or  they  might  expect  a  smoke. 

Demanding  that  the  magistrates 
Should  quickly  come  on  board  his  ship, 
And  let  him  have  some  sheep  and  cattle, 
Or  they  might  expect  a  battle. 

At  eight  o'clock,  by  signal  given, 
Our  peaceful  atmosphere  was  riven 
By  British  balls,  both  grape  and  round, 
As  plenty  afterwards  were  found. 

But  oh !  to  hear  the  doleful  cries 
Of  people  running  for  their  lives! 
Women,  with  children  in  their  arms, 
Running  away  to  the  farms ! 

With  all  their  firing  and  their  skill 
They  did  not  any  person  kill; 
Neither  was  any  person  hurt 
But  the  Reverend  Parson  Burt. 

And  he  was  not  killed  by  a  ball, 

As  judged  by  jurors  one  and  all; 

But  being  in  a  sickly  state, 

He,  frightened,  fell,  which  proved  his  fate. 

Another  truth  to  you  I  '11  tell, 

That  you  may  see  they  levelled  well ; 


For  aiming  for  to  kill  the  people, 
They  fired  their  shot  into  a  steeple. 

They  fired  low,  they  fired  high, 
The  women  scream,  the  children  cry; 
And  all  their  firing  and  their  racket 
Shot  off  the  topmast  of  a  packet. 

From  the  moment,  almost,  of  the  fight  at 
Lexington,  the  conquest  of  Canada  had  been 
dreamed  of,  and  in  September,  1 775,  a  force  of 
two  thousand  men,  under  General  Richard  Mont 
gomery,  started  for  Quebec.  He  was  joined  by 
another  force  under  Benedict  Arnold,  and  an  at 
tempt  was  made  to  carry  the  citadel  by  storm. 
But  Montgomery  fell  as  he  led  the  way  over  the 
walls,  Arnold  was  wounded,  and  the  Americana 
were  beaten  back. 

MONTGOMERY  AT  QUEBEC 

[December  31.  1775) 

ROUND  Quebec's  embattled  walls 

Moodily  the  patriots  lay; 
Dread  disease  within  its  thralls 

Drew  them  closer  day  by  day; 
Till  from  suffering  man  to  man, 
Mutinous,  a  murmur  ran. 

Footsore,  they  had  wandered  far. 
They  had  fasted,  they  had  bled; 

They  had  slept  beneath  the  star 
With  no  pillow  for  the  head; 

Was  it  but  to  freeze  to  stone 

In  this  cruel  icy  zone? 

Yet  their  leader  held  his  heart, 

Naught  discouraged,  naught  dismayed; 

Quelled  with  unobtrusive  art 
Those  that  muttered;  unafraid 

Waited,  watchful,  for  the  hour 

When  his  golden  chance  should  flower. 

*T  was  the  death-tide  of  the  year; 

Night  had  passed  its  murky  noon; 
Through  the  bitter  atmosphere 

Pierced  nor  ray  of  star  nor  moon; 
But  upon  the  bleak  earth  beat 
Blinding  arrows  of  the  sleet. 

While  the  trumpets  of  the  storm 

Pealed  the  bastioned  heights  around, 

Did  the  dauntless  heroes  form, 

Did  the  low,  sharp  order  sound. 
"Be  the  watchword  Liberty  /" 

Cried  the  brave  Montgomery. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Here,  where  he  had  won  applause, 
When  Wolfe  faced  the  Gallic  foe, 

For  a  nobler,  grander  cause 

Would  he  strike  the  fearless  blow,  — 

Smite  at  Wrong  upon  the  throne, 

At  Injustice  giant  grown. 

'Men,  you  will  not  fear  to  tread 
Where  your  general  dares  to  lead ! 

On,  my  valiant  boys!"  he  said. 
And  his  foot  was  first  to  speed; 

Swiftly  up  the  beetling  steep, 

Lion-hearted,  did  he  leap. 

Flashed  a  sudden  blinding  glare; 

Roared  a  fearsome  battle-peal; 
Rang  the  gloomy  vasts  of  air; 

Seemed  the  earth  to  rock  and  reel; 
While  adown  that  fiery  breath 
Rode  the  hurtling  bolts  of  death. 

Woe  for  him,  the  valorous  one, 

Now  a  silent  clod  of  clay! 
Nevermore  for  him  the  sun 

Would  make  glad  the  paths  of  day; 
Yet  't  were  better  thus  to  die 
Than  to  cringe  to  tyranny !  — 

Better  thus  the  life  to  yield. 
Striking  for  the  right  and  God, 

Upon  Freedom's  gory  field, 
Than  to  kiss  Oppression's  rod! 

Honor,  then,  for  all  time  be 

To  the  brave  Montgomery! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


Though  the  Americans  had  lost  Canada,  they 
were  soon  to  gain  Boston.  During  the  winter  of 
1 775-76,  a  great  number  of  captured  cannon  had 
been  dragged  on  sledges  from  Ticonderoga,  the 
drilling  of  the  army  had  gone  steadily  on,  and  at 
last  Washington  felt  that  he  was  able  to  assume 
the  offensive,  and  on  the  night  of  March  4,  1776, 
he  seized  and  fortified  Dorchester  Heights. 


A   SONG 

[1776] 

SMILE,  Massachusetts,  smile, 
Thy  virtue  still  outbraves 
The  frowns  of  Britain's  isle. 
The  rage  of  home-born  slaves. 
Thy  free-born  sons  disdain  their  ease, 
When  purchased  by  their  liberties. 


Thy  genius,  once  the  pride 

Of  Britain's  ancient  isle, 

Brought  o'er  the  raging  tide 

By  our  forefathers'  toil; 
In  spite  of  North's  despotic  power. 
Shines  glorious  on  this  western  shore. 

In  Hancock's  generous  mind 

Awakes  the  noble  strife, 

Which  so  conspicuous  shined 

In  gallant  Sydney's  life; 
While  in  its  cause  the  hero  bled, 
Immortal  honors  crown'd  his  head. 

Let  zeal  your  breasts  inspire; 

Let  wisdom  guide  your  plans; 

'T  is  not  your  cause  entire, 

On  doubtful  conflict  hangs; 
The  fate  of  this  vast  continent, 
And  unborn  millions  share  th'  event. 

To  close  the  gloomy  scenes 

Of  this  alarming  day, 

A  happy  union  reigns 

Through  wide  America. 
While  awful  Wisdom  hourly  waits 
To  adorn  the  councils  of  her  states. 

Brave  Washington  arrives, 

Arrayed  in  warlike  fame, 

While  in  his  soul  revives 

Great  Marlboro's  martial  Same, 
To  lead  your  conquering  armies  on 
To  lasting  glory  and  renown. 

To  aid  the  glorious  cause, 

Experienc'd  Lee  has  come, 

Renown'd  in  foreign  wars, 

A  patriot  at  home. 

W7hile  valiant  Putnam's  warlike  deeds 
Amongst  the  foe  a  terror  spreads. 

Let  Britons  proudly  boast. 
"That  their  two  thousand  braves 
Can  drive  our  numerous  host. 
And  make  us  all  their  slaves;" 
While  twice  six  thousand  quake  with  fear. 
Nor  dare  without  their  lines  appear. 

Kind  Heaven  has  deign'd  to  own 

Our  bold  resistance  just, 

Since  murderous  Gage  began 

The  bloody  carnage  first. 
Near  ten  to  one  has  been  their  cost, 
For  each  American  we've  lost. 


SOME   REMARKS  ON  THE   PRESENT   WAR 


173 


Stand  firm  in  your  defence. 
Like  Sons  of  Freedom  fight, 
Your  haughty  foes  convince 
That  you'll  maintain  your  right. 
Defiance  bid  to  tyrants'  frown, 
And  glory  will  your  valor  crown. 
The  Connecticut  Gazette,  1 776. 


Howe  realized  that  Boston  was  untenable  un 
less  the  Americans  could  be  dislodged;  but  with 
the  memory  of  Bunker  Hill  before  him,  he  had  no 
heart  for  the  enterprise.  While  he  hesitated,  the 
American  works  were  made  well-nigh  impregnable, 
and  Howe  decided  to  abandon  the  town.  On 
March  17,  1776,  the  British  troops,  eight  thousand 
in  number,  sailed  away  for  Halifax.  Washington 
at  once  took  possession  of  the  city. 

A    POEM  CONTAINING   SOME   RE 
MARKS  ON  THE  PRESENT  WAR 

[March  17,  1776] 

BRITONS  grown  big  with  pride 

And  wanton  ease, 

And  tyranny  beside, 

They  sought  to  please 

Their  craving  appetite, 

They  strove  with  all  their  might. 

They  vow'd  to  rise  and  fight, 

To  make  us  bow. 

The  plan  they  laid  was  deep 

Even  like  hell; 

With  sympathy  I  weep, 

While  here  I  tell 

Of  that  base  murderous  brood, 

Void  of  the  fear  of  God, 

Who  came  to  spill  our  blood 

In  our  own  land. 

They  bid  their  armies  sail 
Though  billows  roar, 
And  take  the  first  fair  gale 
For  Boston's  shore; 
They  cross'd  the  Atlantic  sea 
A  long  and  watery  way, 
Poor  Boston  fell  a  prey 
To  tyranny. 


Gage  was  both  base  and  mean, 
.  He  dare  not  fight, 
The  men  he  sent  were  seen 
Like  owls  in  night: 
It  was  in  Lexington 
Where  patriots'  blood  did  run 


Before  the  rising  sun 
In  crimson  gore. 

Here  sons  of  freedom  fell 

Rather  than  flee, 

Unto  those  brutes  of  hell 

They  fell  a  prey; 

But  they  shall  live  again, 

Their  names  shall  rise  and  reign 

Among  the  noble  skin 

In  all  our  land. 

But  oh !  this  cruel  foe 
Went  on  in  haste, 
To  Concord  they  did  go, 
And  there  did  waste 
Some  stores  in  their  rage, 
To  gratify  old  Gage, 
His  name  in  every  page 
Shall  be  defam'd. 

Their  practice  thus  so  base, 

And  murder  too, 

Rouz'd  up  the  patriot  race, 

Who  did  pursue, 

And  put  this  foe  to  flight, 

They  could  not  bear  the  light, 

Some  rued  the  very  night 

They  left  their  den. 

And  now  this  cruelty 

Was  spread  abroad, 

The  sons  of  liberty 

This  act  abhorr'd, 

Their  noble  blood  did  boil, 

Forgetting  all  the  toil, 

In  troubles  they  could  smile, 

And  went  in  haste. 

Our  army  willingly 
Did  then  engage, 
To  stop  the  cruelty 
Of  tyrants'  rage! 
They  did  not  fear  our  foe, 
But  ready  were  to  go, 
And  let  the  tyrants  know 
Whose  sons  they  were. 

But  when  old  Gage  did  see 
All  us  withstand, 
And  strive  for  liberty 
Through  all  our  land, 
He  strove  with  all  his  might, 
For  rage  was  his  delight, 
With  fire  he  did  fight, 
A  monster  he. 


'74 


On  Charlestown  he  display'd 

His  fire  abroad; 

He  it  in  ashes  laid, 

An  act  abhorr'd 

By  sons  of  liberty, 

Who  saw  the  flames  on  high 

Piercing  their  native  sky, 

And  now  lies  waste. 

To  Bunker-Hill  they  came , 

Most  rapidly, 

And  many  there  were  slain, 

And  there  did  die. 

They  call'd  it  bloody  hill, 

Altho'  they  gain'd  their  will 

In  triumph  they  were  still, 

'Cause  of  their  slain. 

Here  sons  of  freedom  fought 
Right  manfully, 
A  wonder  here  was  wrought 
Though  some  did  die. 
Here  WARREN  bow'd  to  death, 
His  last  expiring  breath, 
In  language  mild  he  saith, 
Fight  on,  brave  boys. 

Oh !  this  did  stain  the  pride 

Of  British  troops, 

They  saw  they  were  deny'd 

Of  their  vain  hopes 

Of  marching  thro'  our  land, 

When  twice  a  feeble  band, 

Did  fight  and  boldly  stand 

In  our  defence. 

Brave  WASHINGTON  did  come 

To  our  relief; 

He  left  his  native  home, 

Filled  with  grief, 

He  did  not  covet  gain, 

The  cause  he  would  maintain 

And  die  among  the  slain 

Rather  than  flee. 

His  bosom  glow'd  with  love 

For  liberty, 

His  passions  much  did  move 

To  orphans'  cry, 

He  let  proud  tyrants  know, 

How  far  their  bounds  should  go 

And  then  his  bombs  did  throw 

Into  their  den. 

This  frighted  them  full  sore 
When  bombs  were  sent, 


When  cannon  loud  did  roar 

They  left  each  tent: 

Oh !  thus  did  the  tyrants  fly, 

Went  precipitately, 

Their  shipping  being  nigh, 

They  sailed  off. 

And  now  Boston  is  free 
From  tyrants  base, 
The  sons  of  liberty 
Possess  the  place; 
They  now  in  safety  dwell. 
Free  from  those  brutes  of  hell, 
Their  raptur'd  tongues  do  tell 
Their  joys  great. 


A  portion  of  the  British  fleet  remained  in  Bos 
ton  harbor,  and  apprehensions  began  to  be  felt 
that  an  effort  would  be  made  to  recapture  the 
town.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Captain  James 
Mugford,  of  the  schooner  Franklin,  captured  the 
British  ship  Hope,  bound  for  Boston  with  supplies 
and  fifteen  hundred  barrels  of  powder.  Two  days 
later,  on  May  19,  the  Franklin  ran  aground  at 
Point  Shirley,  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  and 
was  at  once  attacked  by  boats  from  the  British 
vessels.  A  sharp  engagement  ensued,  in  which 
Mugford  was  killed.  His  last  words  are  said  to 
have  been  those  used  by  Lawrence  nearly  forty 
years  later:  "Don't  give  up  the  ship!  You  will 
beat  them  off! "  And  they  did. 


MUGFORD'S  VICTORY 

[May  17-19,  1776] 

OUR  mother,  the  pride  of  us  all, 
She  sits  on  her  crags  by  the  shore, 

And  her  feet  they  are  wet  with  the  waves 

Whose  foam  is  as  flowers  from  the  graves 
Of    her    sons   whom    she   welcomes    nc 
more, 

And  who  answer  no  more  to  her  call. 

Amid  weeds  and  sea-tangle  and  shells 
They  are  buried  far  down  in  the  deep,  — • 

The  deep  which  they  loved  to  career. 
Oh,  might  we  awake  them  from  sleep! 

Oh,  might  they  our  voices  but  hear, 

And  the  sound  of  our  holiday  bells! 

Can  it  be  she  is  thinking  of  them, 
Her  face  is  so  proud  and  so  still. 

And  her  lashes  are  moistened  with  tears  ? 

Ho,  little  ones!  pluck  at  her  hem. 
Her  lap  with  your  jollity  fill. 

And  ask  of  her  thoughts  and  her  fears. 


"  Fears ! "  —  we  have  roused  her  at  last ; 

See!  her  lips  part  with  a  smile. 
And  laughter  breaks  forth  from  her  eyes,  — 
"Fears!  whence  should  they  ever  arise 

In  our  hearts,  O  my  children,  the  while 
We  can  remember  the  past  ? 

"Can  femember  that  morning  of  May, 
When  Mugford  went  forth  with  his  men, 

Twenty,  and  all  of  them  ours. 

'T  is  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 
And  the  sea  and  the  shore  are  as  then, 

And  as  bright  are  the  grass  and  the  flowers ; 
But  our  twenty  —  they  come  not  again ! 

"He  had  heard  of  the  terrible  need 

Of  the  patriot  army  there 
In  Boston  town.   Now  for  a  deed 

To  save  it  from  despair! 
To  thrill  with  joy  the  great  commander's 

heart, 
And  hope  new-born  to  all  the  land  impart ! 

"Hope!  ay;   that  was  the  very  name 
Of  the  good  ship  that  came 

From  England  far  away. 
Laden  with  enginery  of  death. 
Food  for  the  cannon's  fiery  breath; 
Hope-laden  for  great  Washington, 
Who,  but  for  her,  was  quite  undone 

A  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 

"  'Oh,  but  to  meet  her  there, 
And  grapple  with  her  fair, 

Out  in  the  open  bay!' 
Mugford  to  Glover  said. 

How  could  he  answer  nay? 

And  Mugford  sailed  away, 
Brave  heart  and  newly  wed. 

"But  what  are  woman's  tears, 

And  rosy  cheeks  made  pale, 
To  one  who  far  off  hears 

The  generations  hail 
A  deed  like  this  we  celebrate  to-day, 
A  hundred  years  since  Mugford  sailed  away ! 

"I  love  to  picture  him, 

Clear-eyed  and  strong  of  limb, 

Gazing  his  last  upon  the  rocky  shore 

His  feet  should  press  no  more; 

Seeing  the  tall  church-steeples  fade  away 

In  distance  soft  and  gray; 

So  dropping  down  below  the  horizon's  rim 

Where  fame  awaited  him. 


"Slow  sailing  from  the  east  his  victim  came. 
They  met;    brief  parley;   struggle  brief  and 
tame, 

And  she  was  ours; 
In  Boston  harbor  safe  ere  set  of  sun, 
Great  joy  for  Washington ! 

But  heavy  grew  the  hours 
On  Mugford's  hands,  longing  to  bring  to  me 
His  mother  proud,  news  of  his  victory; 
But  that  was  not  to  be! 

"Abreast  Nantasket's  narrow  strip  of  gray 

The  British  cruisers  lay: 

They  saw  the  daring  skipper  dropping  down 

From  the  much-hated  rebel-haunted  town, 

And  in  the  twilight  dim 

Their  boats  awaited  him. 

While  wind  and  tide  conspired 

To  grant  what  they  desired. 

"Thickly  they  swarmed  about  his  tiny  craft; 
But  Mugford  gayly  laughed 
And  gave  them  blow  for  blow; 
And  many  a  hapless  foe 
Went  hurtling  down  below. 

Upon  the  schooner's  rail 

Fell,  like  a  thresher's  flail, 
The  strokes  that  beat  the  soul  and  sense  apart, 
And  pistol-crack  through  many  an  eager  heart 

Sent  deadly  hail. 
But  when  the  fight  was  o'er, 
Brave  Mugford  was  no  more. 

Crying,  with  death-white  lip, 

'Boys,  don't  give  up  the  ship!' 
His  soul  struck  out  for  heaven's  peaceful  shore. 

"We  gave  him  burial  meet; 
Through  every  sobbing  street 
A  thousand  men  marched  with  their  arms 

reversed ; 

And  Parson  Story  told, 
In  sentences  of  gold, 

The  tale  since  then  a  thousand  timei  re 
hearsed." 

Such  is  the  story  she  tells, 

Our  mother,  the  pride  of  us  all. 
Ring  out  your  music,  O  bells, 

That  ever  such  things  could  befall! 
Ring  not  for  Mugford  alone, 
Ring  for  the  twenty  unknown, 
Who  fought  hand-to-hand  at  his  side, 
Who  saw  his  last  look  when  he  died. 
And  who  brought  him,  though  dead,  to  his  own ! 
JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


i76 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  month  later,  on  June  14,  1775,  the  Conti 
nentals  occupied  various  islands  and  points  in  the 
bay,  and  opened  so  hot  a  fire  upon  the  British 
ships  that  they  were  finally  forced  to  weigh  an 
chor  and  sail  away.  The  news  of  the  capture  of 
Boston  and  departure  of  the  British  was  received 
with  the  greatest  rejoicing  throughout  the  coun 
try.  Among  the  many  songs  composed  to  cele 
brate  the  event,  one,  "Off  from  Boston,"  gained 
wide  popularity. 

OFF  FROM  BOSTON 

SONS  of  valor,  taste  the  glories 

Of  celestial  liberty, 
Sing  a  triumph  o'er  the  Tories, 

Let  the  pulse  of  joy  beat  high. 

Heaven  hath  this  day  foiPd  the  many 
Fallacies  of  George  the  King; 

Let  the  echo  reach  Britan'y, 
Bid  her  mountain  summits  ring. 

See  yon  navy  swell  the  bosom 

Of  the  late  enraged  sea; 
Where'er  they  go,  we  shall  oppose  them, 

Sons  of  valor  must  be  free. 

Should  they  touch  at  fair  Rhode  Island, 
There  to  combat  with  the  brave, 

Driven  from  each  dale  and  highland. 
They  shall  plough  the  purple  wave. 

Should  they  thence  to  fair  Virginia, 
Bend  a  squadron  to  Dunmore, 

Still  with  fear  and  ignominy, 
They  shall  quit  the  hostile  shore. 


To  Carolina  or  to  Georg'y, 

Should  they  next  advance  their  fame, 
This  land  of  heroes  shall  disgorge  the 

Sons  of  tyranny  and  shame. 

Let  them  rove  to  climes  far  distant, 

Situate  under  Arctic  skies, 
Call  on  Hessian  troops  assistant, 

And  the  savages  to  rise. 

Boast  of  wild  brigades  from  Russia, 
To  fix  down  the  galling  chain, 

Canada  and  Nova  Scotia, 

Shall  disgorge  these  hordes  again. 

In  New  York  state,  rejoin'd  by  Clinton, 
Should  their  standards  mock  the  air, 

Many  a  surgeon  shall  put  lint  on 
Wounds  of  death  received  there. 

War,  fierce  war,  shall  break  their  forces, 
Nerves  of  Tory  men  shall  fail, 

Seeing  Howe,  with  alter'd  courses, 
Bending  to  the  western  gale. 

Thus  from  every  bay  of  ocean, 
Flying  back  with  sails  unfurl'd, 

Tossed  with  ever-troubled  motion, 
They  shall  quit  this  smiling  world. 

Like  Satan  banished  from  heaven, 
Never  see  the  smiling  shore; 

From  this  land,  so  happy,  driven, 
Never  stain  its  bosom  more. 


CHAPTER   IV 


INDEPENDENCE 


At  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  very  few. 
even  of  the  more  radical  colonial  leaders,  thought 
of  or  desired  complete  independence  from  Great 
Britain.  Samuel  Adams  was  perhaps  the  first  to 
proclaim  this  as  the  only  solution  of  the  problem 
which  confronted  the  colonies.  But  the  sentiment 
for  independence  grew  steadily. 

EMANCIPATION   FROM   BRITISH 
DEPENDENCE 

[1775] 

Libera  nos,  Domine  —  Deliver  us,  O  Lord, 
Not  only  from  British  dependence,  but  also, 


FROM    a    junto    that    labor    for    absolute 

power, 
Whose  schemes  disappointed  have  made  them 

look  sour; 
From  the  lords  of  the  council,  who  fight 

against  freedom 
Who  still  follow  on  where  delusion  shall  lead 

'em. 

From  groups  at  St.  James's  who  slight  our 
Petitions, 

And  fools  that  are  waiting  for  further  sub 
missions  ; 


RODNEY'S   RIDE 


177 


From  a  nation  whose  manners  are  rough  and 

abrupt, 
From  scoundrels  and  rascals  whom  gold  can 

corrupt. 

From  pirates  sent  out  by  command  of  the  king 
To  murder  and  plunder,  but  never  to  swing; 
From  Wallace,  and  Graves,  and  Vipers,  and 

Roses, 
Whom,  if  Heaven  pleases,  we'll  give  bloody 

noses. 

From  the  valiant  Dunmore,  with  his  crew  of 

banditti 

Who  plunder  Virginians  at  Williamsburg  city, 
From  hot-headed  Montague,  mighty  to  swear, 
The  little  fat  man  with  his  pretty  white  hair. 

From  bishops  in  Britain,  who  butchers  are 
grown, 

From  slaves  that  would  die  for  a  smile  from 
the  throne, 

From  assemblies  that  vote  against  Congress' 
proceedings 

(Who  now  see  the  fruit  of  their  stupid  mis- 
leadings). 

From  Tryon,  the  mighty,  who  flies  from  our 

city, 
And  swelled  with  importance,  disdains  the 

committee 
(But  since  he  is  pleased  to  proclaim  us  his 

foes, 
What  the  devil  care  we  where  the  devil  he 

goes). 

From  the  caitiff,  Lord  North,  who  would  bind 

us  in  chains, 
From  our  noble  King  Log,  with  his  toothful 

of  brains, 
Who  dreams,  and  is  certain  (when  taking  a 

nap), 
He  has  conquered  our  lands  as  they  lay  on 

his  map. 

From  a  kingdom  that  bullies,  and  hectors,  and 

swears, 

I  send  up  to  Heaven  my  wishes  and  prayers 
That  we,  disunited,  may  freemen  be  still, 
And  Britain  go  on  —  to  be  damn'd  if  she  will. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


On  June  8  Richard  Henry  Lee  submitted  to 
the  Continental  Congress  a  motion  "That  these 
United  Colonies  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be, 


free  and  independent  States;  that  they  are  ab 
solved  from  all  allegiance  to  the  British  Crown; 
and  that  all  political  connection  between  them 
and  the  state  of  Great  Britain  is,  and  ought  to  be, 
totally  dissolved."  The  debate  on  the  motion  be 
gan  July  1. 

RODNEY'S  RIDE 

[July3.  1776] 

IN  that  soft  mid-land  where  the  breezes  bear 
The  North  and  South  on  the  genial  air, 
Through  the  county  of  Kent,  on  affairs  of 

state, 
Rode  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Burly  and  big,  and  bold  and  bluff, 
In  his  three-cornered  hat  and  coat  of  snuff, 
A  foe  to  King  George  and  the  English  State, 
Was  Csesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Into  Dover  village  he  rode  apace, 
And  his  kinsfolk  knew,  from  his  anxious  face, 
It  was  matter  grave  that  brought  him  there, 
To  the  counties  three  on  the  Delaware. 

"  Money  and  men  we  must  have,"  he  said, 
"Or  the  Congress  fails  and  our  cause  is  dead; 
Give  us  both  and  the  King  shall  not  work  his 

will. 
We  are  men,  since  the  blood  of  Bunker  Hill!" 

Comes  a  rider  swift  on  a  panting  bay: 
"Ho,  Rodney,  ho!  you  must  save  the  day, 
For  the  Congress  halts  at  a  deed  so  great, 
And  your  vote  alone  may  decide  its  fate." 

Answered  Rodney  then:    "I  will  ride  with 

speed; 

It  is  Liberty's  stress;  it  is  Freedom's  need. 
When  stands  it  ?"  "To-night.  Not  a  moment 

to  spare, 
But  ride  like  the  wind  from  the  Delaware." 

"  Ho,  saddle  the  black !  I  've  but  half  a  day, 
And  the  Congress  sits  eighty  miles  away  — 
But  I  '11  be  in  time,  if  God  grants  me  grace, 
To  shake  my  fist  in  King  George's  face." 

He  is  up;   he  is  off!  and  the  black  horse 

flies 
On  the  northward  road  ere  the  "God-speed" 

dies; 

It  is  gallop  and  spur,  as  the  leagues  they  clear, 
And  the  clustering  mile-stones  move  a-rear. 


178 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


It  is  two  of  the  clock ;  and  the  fleet  hoofs  fling 
The  Fieldboro's  dust  with  a  clang  and  a  cling; 
It  is  three;  and  he  gallops  with  slack  rein 

where 
The  road  winds  down  to  the  Delaware. 

Four;  and  he  spurs  into  New  Castle  town. 
From  his  panting  steed  he  gets  him  down  — 
"A  fresh  one,  quick!  not  a  moment's  wait!" 
And  off  speeds  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

It  is  five;   and  the  beams  of  the  western  sun 
Tinge  the  spires  of  Wilmington  gold  and  dun; 
Six;   and  the  dust  of  Chester  Street 
Flies  back  in  a  cloud  from  the  courser's  feet. 

It  is  seven ;  the  horse-boat  broad  of  beam, 
At    the    Schuylkill    ferry   crawls    over    the 

stream  — 
And    at    seven-fifteen    by    the    Rittenhouse 

clock, 
He  flings  his  reins  to  the  tavern  jock. 

The  Congress  is  met;   the  debate's  begun, 
And  Liberty  lags  for  the  vote  of  one  — 
When  into  the  hall,  not  a  moment  late, 
Walks  Csesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

Not  a  moment  late !  and  that  half  day's  ride 
Forwards  the  world  with  a  mighty  stride; 
For  the  act  was  passed;    ere  the  midnight 

stroke 
O'er  the  Quaker  City  its  echoes  woke. 

At  Tyranny's  feet  was  the  gauntlet  flung; 
"We  are   free!"   all  the  bells   through   the 

colonies  rung. 

And  the  sons  of  the  free  may  recall  with  pride 
The  day  of  Delegate  Rodney's  ride. 


The  motion  was  put  to  a  vote  the  following 
day.  July  2,  1776,  and  was  adopted  by  the  unani 
mous  vote  of  twelve  colonies,  the  delegates  from 
New  York  being  excused  from  voting,  as  they  had 
no  sufficient  instructions.  This  having  been  de 
cided,  the  Congress  at  once  went  into  committee 
of  the  whole,  to  consider  the  form  of  declaration 
which  should  be  adopted. 


AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE 

MAKE  room,   all  ye  kingdoms,   in   history 

renown'd. 
Whose  arms  have  in  battle  with  victory  been 

crown'd, 


Make  room  for  America,  another  great  na 
tion  ; 
She  rises  to  claim  in  your  councils  a  station. 

Her  sons  fought  for  freedom,  and  by  their 

own  bravery 
Have  rescued  themselves  from  the  shackles  of 

slavery ; 

America  is  free;  and  Britain's  abhorr'd; 
And  America  's  fame  is  forever  restored. 

Fair  Freedom  in  Britain  her  throne  had 
erected ; 

Her  sons  they  grew  venal,  and  she  disre 
spected. 

The  goddess,  offended,  forsook  that  base 
nation, 

And  fix'd  on  our  mountains :  a  more  honor'd 
station. 

With  glory  immortal  she  here  sits  en 
throned. 

Nor  fears  the  vain  vengeance  of  Britain  dis- 
own'd. 

Great  Washington  guards  her,  with  heroes 
surrounded ; 

Her  foes  he,  with  shameful  defeat,  has  con 
founded. 

To  arms !  we  to  arms  flew !  't  was  Freedom 

invited  us. 
The  trumpet,  shrill  sounding,  to  battle  excited 

us; 
The  banners  of  virtue,  unfurl'd,  did  wave  o'er 

us, 
Our  hero  led  on,  and  the  foe  flew  before  us. 

In  Heaven  and  Washington  we  placed  reli 
ance, 

We  met  the  proud  Britons,  and  bid  them 
defiance ; 

The  cause  we  supported  was  just,  and  was 
glorious ; 

When  men  fight  for  freedom,  they  must  be 
victorious. 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 


A  committee  had  already  been  appointed  to 
draw  up  a  paper  which  should  be  worthy  this  sol 
emn  occasion.  Thomas  Jefferson  was  its  chairman, 
and  was  chosen  to  be  the  author  of  the  Declara 
tion.  On  the  evening  of  July  4,  1776,  the  Decla 
ration  of  Independence  was  unanimously  adopted 
by  twelve  colonies,  the  New  York  delegates  being 
still  unable  to  act. 


ON  INDEPENDENCE 


179 


THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY 

DAY  of  glory !  Welcome  day ! 
Freedom's  banners  greet  thy  ray; 
See!  how  cheerfully  they  play 

With  thy  morning  breeze, 
On  the  rocks  where  pilgrims  kneeled, 
On  the  heights  where  squadrons  wheeled, 
When  a  tyrant's  thunder  pealed 

O'er  the  trembling  seas. 

God  of  armies !  did  thy  stars 
On  their  courses  smite  his  cars; 
Blast  his  arm,  and  wrest  his  bars 

From  the  heaving  tide? 
On  our  standard,  lo!  they  burn, 
And,  when  days  like  this  return, 
Sparkle  o'er  the  soldier's  urn 

Who  for  freedom  died. 

God  of  peace!  whose  spirit  fills 
All  the  echoes  of  our  hills. 
All  the  murmur  of  our  rills, 

Now  the  storm  is  o'er, 
O  let  freemen  be  our  sons. 
And  let  future  Washingtons 
Rise,  to  lead  their  valiant  ones 

Till  there's  war  no  more! 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 


News  of  its  adoption  was  received  throughout 
the  country  with  the  greatest  rejoicing.  On  the 
9th  of  July  it  was  ratified  by  New  York,  and  the 
soldiers  there  celebrated  the  occasion  by  throw 
ing  down  the  leaden  statue  of  George  III  on  the 
Bowling  Green,  and  casting  it  into  bullets. 
Everywhere  there  were  bonfires,  torchlight  pro 
cessions,  and  ratification  meetings. 

INDEPENDENCE   DAY 

SQUEAK  the  fife,  and  beat  the  drum, 
Independence  day  is  come! 
Let  the  roasting  pig  be  bled. 
Quick  twist  off  the  cockerel's  head, 
Quickly  rub  the  pewter  platter. 
Heap  the  nutcakes,  fried  in  butter. 
Set  the  cups  and  beaker  glass, 
The  pumpkin  and  the  apple  sauce; 
Send  the  keg  to  shop  for  brandy; 
Maple  sugar  we  have  handy. 
Independent,  staggering  Dick, 
A  noggin  mix  of  swingeing  thick; . 
Sal,  put  on  your  russet  skirt, 
Jotham,  get  your  boughten  shirt, 


To-day  we  dance  to  tiddle  diddle. 

—  Here  comes  Sambo  with  his  fiddle; 
Sambo,  take  a  dram  of  whiskey. 
And  play  up  Yankee  Doodle  frisky. 
Moll,  come  leave  your  witched  tricks, 
And  let  us  have  a  reel  of  six. 
Father  and  mother  shall  make  two; 
Sal,  Moll,  and  I  stand  all  a-row; 
Sambo,  play  and  dance  with  quality; 
This  is  the  day  of  blest  equality. 
Father  and  mother  are  but  men, 
And  Sambo  —  is  a  citizen. 

Come  foot  it,  Sal  —  Moll,  figure  in, 
And  mother,  you  dance  up  to  him; 
Now  saw  as  fast  as  e'er  you  can  do, 
And  father,  you  cross  o'er  to  Sambo. 

—  Thus  we  dance,  and  thus  we  play, 
On  glorious  independence  day.  — 
Rub  more  rosin  on  your  bow, 

And  let  us  have  another  go. 
Zounds !  as  sure  as  eggs  and  bacon, 
Here's  ensign  Sneak,  and  Uncle  Deacon, 
Aunt  Thiah,  and  their  Bets  behind  her, 
On  blundering  mare,  than  beetle  blinder. 
And  there's  the  'Squire  too.  with  his  lady — • 
Sal,  hold  the  beast,  I  '11  take  the  baby, 
Moll,  bring  the  'Squire  our  great  armchair; 
Good  folks,  we're  glad  to  see  you  here. 
Jotham,  get  the  great  case  bottle, 
Your  teeth  can  pull  its  corn-cob  stopple. 
Ensign,  —  Deacon,  never  mind; 
'Squire,  drink  until  you're  blind. 
Come,  here's  the  French,  the  Guillotine, 
And  here  is  good  'Squire  Gallatin, 
And  here's  each  noisy  Jacobin. 
Here's  friend  Madison  so  hearty, 
And  here's  confusion  to  the  treaty. 
Come,  one  more  swig  to  Southern  Demos 
Who  represent  our  brother  negroes. 
Thus  we  drink  and  dance  away, 
This  glorious  INDEPENDENCE  DAY! 

ROYALL  TYLER. 


ON   INDEPENDENCE 

[August  17,  1776] 

COME  all  you  brave  soldiers,  both  valiant  and 

free, 

It's  for  Independence  we  all  now  agree; 
Let  us  gird  on  our  swords  and  prepare  to 

defend 
Our    liberty,    property,    ourselves    and    our 

friends. 


i8o 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


In  a  cause  that's  so  righteous,  come  let  us 

agree, 

And  from  hostile  invaders  set  America  free. 
The  cause  is  so  glorious  we  need  not  to  fear 
But  from  merciless  tyrants  we'll  set  ourselves 

clear. 

Heaven's  blessing  attending  us,  no  tyrant  shall 

say 
That  Americans  e'er  to  such  monsters  gave 

way. 

But  fighting  we'll  die  in  America's  cause 
Before  we'll  submit  to  tyrannical  laws. 

George  the  Third,  of  Great  Britain,  no  more 

shall  he  reign, 
With  unlimited  sway  o'er  these  free  States 

again ; 
Lord  North,  nor  old  Bute,  nor  none  of  their 

clan, 
Shall  ever  be  honor'd  by  an  American. 

May  Heaven's  blessing  descend  on  our  United 

States, 

And  grant  that  the  union  may  never  abate; 
May  love,  peace,  and  harmony  ever  be  found, 
For  to  go  hand  in  hand  America  round. 

Upon  our  grand  Congress  may  Heaven  bestow 
Both  wisdom  and  skill  our  good  to  pursue; 
On  Heaven  alone  dependent  we'll  be. 
But  from  all  earthly  tyrants  we  mean  to  be 
free. 

Unto  our  brave  Generals  may  Heaven  give 

skill 
Our  armies  to  guide,  and  the  sword  for  to 

wield, 
May  their  hands  taught  to  war,  and  their 

fingers  to  fight, 
Be  able  to  put  British  armies  to  flight. 

And  now,  brave  Americans,  since  it  is  so, 
That  we  are  independent,  we'll  have  them  to 

know 

That  united  we  are,  and  united  we'll  be. 
And  from  all  British  tyrants  we'll  try  to  keep 

free. 

May  Heaven  smile  on  us  in  all  our  endeavors, 
Safe  guard  our  seaports,  our  towns,  and  our 

rivers, 

Keep  us  from  invaders  by  land  and  by  sea, 
And  from  all  who'd  deprive  us  of  our  liberty. 
JONATHAN  MITCHELL  SEWALL. 


THE   AMERICAN   PATRIOT'S 
PRAYER 

[1776] 

PARENT  of  all,  omnipotent 
In  heav'n,  and  earth  below, 

Thro'  all  creation's  bounds  unspent, 
Whose  streams  of  goodness  flow. 

Teach  me  to  know  from  whence  I  rose^ 

And  unto  what  design *d; 
No  private  aims  let  me  propose, 

Since  link'd  with  human  kind. 

But  chief  to  hear  my  country's  voice, 
May  all  my  thoughts  incline, 

'T  is  reason's  law,  't  is  virtue's  choice, 
'T  is  nature's  call  and  thine. 

Me  from  fair  freedom's  sacred  cause 

Let  nothing  e'er  divide; 
Grandeur,  nor  gold,  nor  vain  applause, 

Nor  friendship  false  misguide. 

Let  me  not  faction's  partial  hate 

Pursue  to  this  land's  woe; 
Nor  grasp  the  thunder  of  the  state 

To  wound  a  private  foe. 

If,  for  the  right,  to  wish  the  wrong 

My  country  shall  combine. 
Single  to  serve  th'  erron'ous  throng, 

Spite  of  themselves,  be  mine. 


COLUMBIA 

COLUMBIA,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 

The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the 

skies ; 
Thy  genius  commands  thee;  with  rapture 

behold. 

While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendor  unfold, 
Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time, 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy 

name, 
Be  freedom,  and  science,  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire1 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire ; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm:  for  a  world  be  thy  laws, 


THE  BOASTING  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER 


181 


Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy 

cause; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis,  that  empire  shall 

rise. 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the 

skies. 

Fair  science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar. 

And  the  east  see  the  morn  hide  the  beams  of 
her  star. 

New  bards,  and  new  sages,  unrivalled  shall 
soar 

To  fame  unextinguished,  when  time  is  no 
more ; 

To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed. 

Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  man 
kind; 

Here,  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport  shall 
bring 

Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of 
spring, 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend, 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend; 
The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire ; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners 

refined. 
And  virtue's  bright  image,  instamped  on  the 

mind, 


With  peace  and  soft  rapture  shall  teach  life  to 

glow. 
And  light  up  a  smile  in  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire  and  the  ocean  obey; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices 

and  gold. 
As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splendor 

shall  flow. 
And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall 

bow; 

While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurled. 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war  and  give  peace  to  the 

world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'er- 

spread, 
From    war's    dread    confusion    I    pensively 

strayed. 

The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired ; 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur;  the  thunders 

expired ; 

Perfumes  as  of  Eden  flowed  sweetly  along. 
And  a  voice  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung: 
"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the 

skies." 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


CHAPTER   V 


THE   FIRST   CAMPAIGN 


News  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  was 
accompanied  over  the  country  by  that  of  a  bril 
liant  success  at  the  South.  Early  in  June,  the  Brit 
ish,  under  Sir  Peter  Parker,  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  and 
Lord  Cornwallis,  prepared  to  capture  Charleston, 
8.  C.  To  oppose  them  there  was  practically  nothing 
but  a  fort  of  palmetto  logs  built  on  Sullivan's  Island 
in  Charleston  harbor  by  Colonel  William  Moultrie. 
On  June  28,  1776,  the  British  advanced  to  the  at 
tack,  but  were  beaten  off  with  heavy  loss. 

THE   BOASTING   OF   SIR  PETER 
PARKER 

[June  28,  1776] 

*T  WAS  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  came  sail 
ing  in  from  the  sea. 

With  his  serried  ships-of-line  a-port,  and  his 
ships-of-line  a-lee; 

A  little  lead  for  a  cure,  he  said,  for  these  rebel 
sires  and  sons  I 


And  the  folk  on  the  Charleston  roof-tops 
heard  the  roar  of  the  shotted  guns; 

They  heard  the  roar  of  the  guns  off  shore,  but 
they  marked,  with  a  hopeful  smile. 

The  answering  ire  of  a  storm  of  fire  from 
Sullivan's  sandy  isle. 

'T  was  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  who  saw 

with  the  climbing  noon 
Ruin  and  wreck  on  each  blood-stained  deck 

that  day  in  the  wane  of  June,  — 
The  shivered  spar  and  the  shattered  beam  and 

the  torn  and  toppling  mast 
And  the  grimy  gunners  wounded  sore,  and  the 

seamen  falling  fast; 
But  from  the  stubborn  fort  ashore  no  sight  of 

a  single  sign 
That  the  rebel  sires  and  sons  had  quailed 

before  his  ships-of-the-line. 


182 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'T  was  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  who  saw 

the  fall  of  the  flag 
From  the  fortress  wall ;  then  rang  his  call :  — 

They  have  lost  their  rebel  rag  ! 
And  the  fifty  guns  of  the  Bristol  flamed,  and 

the  volumed  thunder  rolled; 
'T is  now,  the  haughty  Admiral  cried,  we'll 

drive  them  out  of  their  hold  ! 
But  little  he  knew,  and  his  British  crew,  how 

small  was  their  vaunted  power, 
For  lo,  to  the  rampart's  crest  there  leaped  the 

dauntless  man  of  the  hour! 

'T  was  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  who  saw 

with  a  wild  amaze 
This  hero  spring  from   the  fortress   height 

'mid  the  hail  and  the  fiery  haze; 
Under  the  wall  he  strode,  each  step  with  the 

deadliest  danger  fraught, 
And  up  from  the  sand  with  a  triumph  hand 

the  splintered  staff  he  caught. 
Then,  still  unscathed  by  the  iron  rain,  he 

clambered  the  parapet, 
And  'mid  the  burst  of  his  comrades'  cheers 

the  flag  on  the  bastion  set. 

'T  was  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  who  slunk 
through  the  night  to  sea, 

With  his  shattered  ships-of-line  a-port  and  his 
ships-of-line  a-lee; 

Above  there  was  wreck,  and  below  was  wreck, 
and  the  sense  of  loss  and  woe. 

For  the  sneered-at  rebel  sires  and  sons  had 
proved  them  a  direful  foe; 

But  War's  dark  blight  on  the  land  lay  light, 
and  they  hailed  with  a  joyful  smile 

The  stars  of  victory  burning  bright  over  Sul 
livan's  sandy  isle. 

CLINTON  SCOLLAHD. 


The  British  fleet  remained  in  the  neighborhood 
for  three  weeks  to  refit  and  then  sailed  away  to 
New  York  to  cooperate  with  Howe.  Charleston 
was  saved  and  for  two  years  the  Southern  States 
were  free  from  the  invader. 

A  NEW  WAR  SONG  BY  SIR  PETER 
PARKER 

MY  lords,  with  your  leave, 

An  account  I  will  give, 
Which  deserves  to  be  written  in  metre; 

How  the  rebels  and  I 

Have  been  pretty  nigh. 
Faith,  't  was  almost  too  nigh  for  Sir  Peter ! 


De'il  take  'em !  their  shot 

Came  so  swift  and  so  hot. 
And  the  cowardly  dogs  stood  so  stiff,  sirs, 

That  I  put  ship  about 

And  was  glad  to  get  out, 
Or  they  would  not  have  left  me  a  skiff,  sirs. 

With  much  labor  and  toil 

Unto  Sullivan's  Isle, 
I  came,  swift  as  Falstaff,  or  Pistol; 

But  the  Yankees,  od  rat  'em  — 

I  could  not  get  at  'em, 
They  so  terribly  maul'd  my  poor  Bristol 

Behold,  Clinton,  by  land, 

Did  quietly  stand, 
While  I  made  a  thundering  clatter; 

But  the  channel  was  deep, 

So  he  only  could  peep. 
And  not  venture  over  the  water. 

Now,  bold  as  a  Turk, 

I  proceeded  to  York, 

Where,  with  Clinton  and  Howe,  you  may  find 
me: 

I've  the  wind  in  my  tail, 

And  am  hoisting  my  sail, 
To  leave  Sullivan's  Island  behind  me. 

But,  my  lords,  do  not  fear, 

For,  before  the  next  year. 
Although  a  small  island  should  fret  us, 

The  continent,  whole, 

We  will  take,  by  my  soul. 
If  the  cowardly  Yankees  will  let  us. 


The  victory  at  Charleston  was  the  last  success 
which  American  arms  were  to  achieve  for  many 
months.  The  British  had  decided  to  capture  and 
hold  the  line  of  the  Hudson  in  order  to  cut  the 
colonies  in  two.  Howe,  with  a  trained  army  of 
twenty-five  thousand  men,  prepared  to  attack 
New  York,  while,  to  oppose  him,  Washington 
had  only  eighteen  thousand  undisciplined  levies. 
Half  this  force  was  concentrated  at  Brooklyn 
Heights,  which  was  strongly  fortified,  and  here, 
on  August  27,  1776,  Howe  delivered  his  attack. 
Overwhelming  superiority  of  numbers  enabled 
the  British  to  press  back  their  opponents  to  their 
works  on  the  heights.  Not  daring  to  storm,  the 
British  prepared  to  lay  siege  to  this  position. 
Washington  had  no  way  to  withstand  a  siege, 
which  must  have  resulted  in  the  loss  of  his  whole 
army,  and  after  nightfall  of  August  29,  he  suc 
ceeded  in  ferrying  the  entire  force,  with  their 
cannon,  arms,  ammunition,  horses,  and  larder, 
over  to  the  New  York  side. 


HAARLEM  HEIGHTS 


183 


THE   MARYLAND   BATTALION 

[August  27,  1776] 

SPRUCE  Macaronis,  and  pretty  to  see, 
Tidy  and  dapper  and  gallant  were  we; 
Blooded  fine  gentlemen,  proper  and  tall, 
Bold  in  a  fox-hunt  and  gay  at  a  ball; 
Prancing  soldados,  so  martial  and  bluff, 
Billets  for  bullets,  in  scarlet  and  buff  — 
But    our    cockades    were    clasped    with    a 

mother's  low  prayer. 

And  the  sweethearts  that  braided  the  sword- 
knots  were  fair. 

There    was    grummer    of   drums    humming 

hoarse  in  the  hills, 
And  the  bugles  sang  fanfaron  down  by  the 

mills, 
By    Flatbush    the    bagpipes    were    droning 

amain, 
And  keen  cracked  the  rifles  in  Martense's 

lane; 
For  the  Hessians  were  flecking  the  hedges 

with  red, 
And  the  Grenadiers'  tramp  marked  the  roll 

of  the  dead. 

Three  to  one,  flank  and  rear,  flashed  the  files 
of  St.  George, 

The  fierce  gleam  of  their  steel  as  the  glow  of  a 
forge. 

The  brutal  boom-boom  of  their  swart  can 
noneers 

Was  sweet  music  compared  with  the  taunt  of 
their  cheers  - — 

For  the  brunt  of  their  onset,  our  crippled 
array. 

And  the  light  of  God's  leading  gone  out  in  the 
fray! 

Oh,  the  rout  on  the  left  and  the  tug  on  the 

right! 
The  mad  plunge  of  the  charge  and  the  wreck 

of  the  flight! 
When  the  cohorts  of  Grant  held  stout  Stirling 

at  strain. 
And  the  mongrels  of  Hesse  went  tearing  the 

slain ; 
When  at  Freeke's  Mill  the  flumes  and  the 

sluices  ran  red. 
And  the  dead  choked  the  dyke  and  the  marsh 

choked  the  dead! 


"Oh,  Stirling,  good  Stirling!  How  long  must 

we  wait  ? 
Shall  the  shout  of  your  trumpet  unleash  us  too 

late? 
Have  you  never  a  dash  for  brave  Mordecai 

Gist, 
With  his  heart  in  his  throat,  and  his  blade  in 

his  fist? 
Are  we  good  for  no  more  than  to  prance  in  a 

ball, 
When  the  drums  beat  the  charge  and  the 

clarions  call?" 

Tralara !  Tralara !  Now  praise  we  the  Lord, 
For  the  clang  of  His  call  and  the  flash  of  His 

sword ! 

Tralara!  Tralara!  Now  forward  to  die; 
For  the  banner,  hurrah !  and  for  sweethearts, 

good-by ! 
"Four  hundred  wild  lads!"  Maybe  so.  I '11  be 

bound 
'T  will  be  easy  to  count  us,  face  up,  on  the 

ground. 
If  we  hold  the  road  open,  though  Death  take 

the  toll, 
We'll  be  missed  on  parade  when  the  States 

call  the  roll  — 
When  the  flags  meet  in  peace  and  the  guns  are 

at  rest. 
And  fair  Freedom  is  singing  Sweet  Home  in 

the  West. 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 


On  September  15,  1776,  the  British  took  pos 
session  of  New  York,  and  the  American  lines  were 
withdrawn  to  the  line  of  the  Harlem  River.  On 
September  16  the  British  attempted  to  break 
through  their  centre  at  Harlem  Heights.  The 
attack  was  repulsed,  and  for  nearly  a  month  the 
lines  remained  where  they  had  been  formed. 


HAARLEM   HEIGHTS 

Captain  Stephen  Brown  of  Knowlton's  Con 
necticut  Rangers  tells  of  the  affair  of  September 
16,  1776. 

THEY'VE    turned  at  last!    Good-by,   King 
George, 

Despite  your  hireling  band ! 
The  farmer  boys  have  borne  a  brunt, 

The  'prentice  lads  will  stand! 

Though  Peace  may  lag  and  Fortune  flag, 
Our  fight's  as  good  as  won; 


184 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


We've  made  them  yield  in  open  field! 
We've  made  the  Redcoats  run! 

Our  Rangers  sallied  forth  at  dawn 

With  Knowlton  at  their  head 
To  rout  the  British  pickets  out 

And  spend  a  little  lead. 

We  gave  them  eight  brisk  rounds  a-piece, 

And  hurried,  fighting,  back; 
For,  eighteen  score,  the  Light  Armed  Corps 

Were  keen  upon  our  track. 

Along  the  vale  of  Bloomingdale 

They  pressed  our  scant  array; 
They  swarmed  the  crag  and  jeered  our  flag 

Across  the  Hollow  Way. 

Their  skirmishers  bawled  "Hark,  away!" 

Their  buglers,  from  the  wall, 
In  braggart  vaunt  and  bitter  taunt 

Brayed  out  the  hunting  call! 

Oh,  sound  of  shame !  It  woke  a  flame 

In  every  sunburned  face, 
And  every  soul  was  hot  as  coal 

To  cleanse  the  foul  disgrace. 

And  some  that  blenched  on  Brooklyn  Heights 

And  fled  at  Turtle  Bay 
Fair  wept  for  wrath,  and  thronged  my  path 

And  clamored  for  the  fray. 

Our  General  came  spurring !  — 

There  rolled  a  signal  drum.  — 
His  eye  was  bright;  he  rose  his  height; 

He  knew  the  time  had  come. 

He  gave  the  word  to  Knowlton 

To  lead  us  on  once  more  — 
The  pick  of  old  Connecticut,  — 

And  Leitch  with  Wreedon's  corps 

Of  proud  Virginia  Riflemen, 

Tall  hunters  of  the  deer,  — 
To  round  the  boastful  Briton's  flank 

And  take  him  in  the  rear. 

We  left  the  dell,  we  scaled  the  fell, 

And  up  the  crest  we  sprang. 
When  swift  and  sharp  along  the  scarp 

A  deadly  volley  rang; 

And  down  went  Leitch  of  Weedon's  corps ! 
Deep  hurt,  but  gallant  still; 


And  down  went  Knowlton !  —  he  that  bore 
The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 

I  raised  his  head.   But  this  he  said, 

Death-wounded  as  he  lay: 
"Lead  on  the  fight!   I  hold  it  light 

If  we  but  get  the  day ! " 

In  open  rank  we  struck  their  flank, 

And  oh!  the  fight  was  hot! 
Up  came  the  Hessian  Yagers! 

Up  came  the  kilted  Scot! 

Up  came  the  men  of  Linsingen, 

Von  Donop's  Grenadiers! 
But  soon  we  sped  the  vengeful  lead 

A-whistling  'bout  their  ears! 

They  buckled  front  to  Varnum's  brunt; 

We  crumpled  up  their  right, 
And  hurling  back  the  crimson  wrack 

We  swept  along  the  height. 

The  helmets  of  the  Hessians 

Are  tumbled  in  the  wheat; 
The  tartan  of  the  Highlander 

Shall  be  his  winding-sheet! 

A  mingled  rout,  we  drove  them  out 
From  orchard,  field,  and  glen; 

In  goodly  case  it  seemed  to  chase 
Our  hunters  home  again ! 

We  flaunted  in  their  faces 

The  flag  they  thought  to  scorn, 

And  left  them  with  a  loud  "Hurrah!" 
To  choke  their  bugle-horn! 

Upon  a  ledge  embattled 

Above  the  Hudson's  shore 
We  dug  the  grave  for  Knowlton 

And  Leitch  of  Weedon's  corps. 

And  though  in  plight  of  War's  despite 

We  yield  this  island  throne. 
Upon  that  ledge  we  left  a  pledge 

That  we  shall  claim  our  own ! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 


At  this  time  occurred  the  first  of  the  two  most 
dramatic  and  moving  tragedies  of  the  Revolution. 
It  was  important  that  Washington  should  obtain 
detailed  and  accurate  information  as  to  the  posi 
tion  and  intentions  of  the  British,  and  Nathan 
Hale,  a  captain  in  Knowlton's  regiment,  volun 
teered  for  the  service,  and  passed  into  the  British 


NATHAN  HALE 


185 


lines  in  disguise.  He  was  captured  and  taken  be 
fore  Sir  William  Howe,  to  whom  he  frankly  ac 
knowledged  his  errand.  Howe  ordered  him  hanged 
next  day. 

NATHAN   HALE 

[September  22.  1776J 

THE  breezes  went  steadily  thro'  the  tall  pines, 
A-saying    "Oh!  hu-ush!"  a-saying  "Oh! 
hu-ush!" 

As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse, 
For  Hale  in  the  bush;  for  Hale  in  the  bush. 

"Keep  still!"  said  the  thrush  as  she  nestled 

her  young, 

In  a  nest  by  the  road ;  in  a  nest  by  the  road. 
"For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them 

appear 

What  bodes  us  no  good;  what  bodes  us  no 
good." 

The  brave  captain  heard  it,  and  thought  of  his 
home, 

In  a  cot  by  the  brook ;  in  a  cot  by  the  brook. 
With  mother  and  sister  and  memories  dear, 

He  so  gayly  forsook;  he  so  gayly  forsook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming 

apace, 

The  tattoo  had  beat;  the  tattoo  had  beat. 
The  noble  one  sprang  from  his  dark  lurking- 
place, 
To  make  his  retreat ;  to  make  his  retreat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves, 
As  he  pass'd  thro'  the  wood;  as  he  pass'd 

thro'  the  wood; 
And  silently  gain'd  his  rude  launch  on  the 

shore, 

As  she  play'd  with  the  flood;  as  she  play'd 
with  the  flood. 

The  guards  of  the  camp,  on  that  dark,  dreary 

night, 
Had  a  murderous  will;  had  a  murderous 

will. 
They  took  him  and  bore  him  afar  from  the 

shore. 
To  a  hut  on  the  hill;  to  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who  could 

cheer, 

In  that  little  stone  cell;  in  that  little  stone 
cell. 


But  he  trusted  in  love,  from  his  Father  above. 
In  his  heart,  all  was  well;  in  his  heart,  all 
was  well. 

An  ominous  owl  with  his  solemn  bass  voice, 
Sat  moaning  hard  by;  sat  moaning  hard 

by. 

"The  tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly 

rejoice, 
For  he  must  soon  die ;  for  he  must  soon  die." 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  no  thing  he 

restrain'd, 

The  cruel  gen'ral;  the  cruel  gen'ral. 
His  errand  from  camp,  of  the  ends  to  be 

gain'd. 
And  said  that  was  all;  and  said  that  was  all. 

They  took  him  and  bound  him  and  bore  him« 

away, 
Down  the  hill's  grassy  side ;  down  the  hill's 

grassy  side. 

'T  was  there  the  base  hirelings,  in  royal  ar 
ray, 
His  cause  did  deride;  his  cause  did  deride. 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments,  no 

more, 

For  him  to  repent;  for  him  to  repent. 
He   pray'd    for   his   mother,   he   ask'd   not 

another. 
To  Heaven  he  went;  to  Heaven  he  went. 

The  faith  of  a  martyr,  the  tragedy  show'd, 
As  he  trod  the  last  stage ;  as  he  trod  the  last 

stage. 
And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's 

blood, 

As  his  words  do  presage;  as  his  words  do 
presage. 

"Thou  pale  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy 

foe, 
Go  frighten   the  slave;    go   frighten    the 

slave; 
Tell  tyrants,  to  you   their  allegiance  they 

owe. 

No  fears  for  the  brave;  no  fears  for  the 
brave." 

The  execution  took  place  shortly  after  sunrise, 
the  scaffold  being  erected  in  an  orchard  near  the 
present  junction  of  Market  Street  and  East  Broad 
way.  Hale's  last  words  were  the  famous,  "I  only 
regret  that  I  have  but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  coun 
try." 


i86 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


NATHAN   HALE 

[September  22,  1776] 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat. 

A  soldier  marches  by; 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye. 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  the  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 

He  scans  the  tented  line; 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns, 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 
It  meets  his  eager  glance; 

And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 
Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance  — 

A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 
On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  still  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed. 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  and  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear. 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom ; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow, 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  word  of  God! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 
He  dies  upon  the  tree; 


And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit  wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message-words, 
They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 

Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 
A  patriot  could  die. 

With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 
A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 
From  monument  and  urn, 

The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 
His  tragic  fate  shall  learn; 

But  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 
The  name  of  HALE  shall  burn ! 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH. 


Washington  soon  found  himself  unable  to  cope 
with  Howe's  superior  force,  retreated  across  New 
Jersey,  and  on  December  8  reached  the  west 
bank  of  the  Delaware  River.  The  British  came 
up  the  next  day  and  took  a  position  on  the  east 
bank,  with  their  centre  at  Trenton.  Never  did 
America's  future  look  darker  than  on  that  Christ 
mas  night  of  1776. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   SWEET   P 

[December  2  5,  1776] 

MISTRESS  PENELOPE  PENWICK,  she, 

Called  by  her  father,  "My  Sweet  P," 

Painted  by  Peale,  she  won  renown 

In  a  clinging,  short-waisted  satin  gown; 

A  red  rose  touched  by  her  finger-tips 

And  a  smile  held  back  from  her  roguish  lips. 

Thus,  W7illiam  Penwick,  the  jolly  wight, 

In  clouds  of  smoke,  night  after  night, 

Would  tell  a  tale  in  delighted  pride. 

To  cronies,  who  came  from  far  and  wide; 

Always  ending  (with  candle,  he) 

"And  this  is  the  picture  of  my  Sweet  P!" 

The  tale  ?   'T  was  how  Sweet  P  did  chance 
To  give  to  the  British  a  Christmas  dance. 
Penwick's  house  past  the  outpost  stood, 
Flanked  by  the  ferry  and  banked  by  the  wood. 
Hessian  and  British  quartered  there 
Swarmed   through    chamber    and    hall  and 
stair. 


THE  BALLAD  OF   SWEET   P 


187 


Fires  ablaze  and  candles  alight, 
Soldier  and  officer  feasted  that  night. 
The  enemy  ?   Safe,  with  a  river  between, 
Black  and  deadly  and  fierce  and  keen; 
A  river  of  ice  and  a  blinding  storm !  — 
So  they  made  them   merry  and  kept  them 


But  while  they  mirth  and  roistering  made, 
Up  in  her  dormer  window  stayed 
Mistress  Penelope  Penwick  apart. 
With  fearful  thought  and  sorrowful  heart. 
Night  by  night  had  her  candle's  gleam 
Sent  through  the  dark  its  hopeful  beam. 

But  the  nights  they  came  and  they  passed 

again, 

With  never  a  sign  from  her  countrymen ; 
For  where  beat  the  heart  so  brave,  so  bold, 
Which    could   baffle    that    river's    bulwark 

cold? 

Penelope's  eyes  and  her  candle's  light 
Were  mocked  by  the  storm  that  Christmas 

night. 

But  lo,  full  sudden  a  missile  stung 

And  shattered  her  casement  pane  and  rung 

At  her  feet !    'T  was  a  word  from  the  storm 

outside. 

She  opened  her  dormer  window  wide. 
A  wind-swept  figure  halted  below  — 
The  ferryman,  old  and  bent  and  slow. 
Then  a  murmur  rose  upward  —  only  one, 
Thrilling  and  powerful  —  "  Washington  !" 

With  jest  and  laughter  and  candles  bright, 
'T  was  two  by  the  stairway  clock  that  night, 
When  Penelope  Penwick  tripped  her  down, 
Dressed  in  a  short-waisted  satin  gown, 
With  a  red  rose  (cut  from  her  potted  bush). 
There  fell  on  the  rollicking  crowd  a  hush. 

She  stood  in  the  soldiers'  midst,  I  ween, 
The  daintiest  thing  they  e'er  had  seen ! 
And   swept  their  gaze  with   her  eyes  most 

sweet, 

And  patted  her  little  slippered  feet. 
"  'T  is  Christmas  night,  sirs,"  quoth  Sweet  P, 
"I  should  like  to  dance !  Will  you  dance  with 

me?" 

Oh,  but  they  cheered;  ran  to  and  fro, 
And  each  for  the  honor  bowed  him  low. 
Writh  smiling  charm  and  witching  grace 
She  chose  him  pranked  with  officer's  lace 


And  shining  buttons  and  dangling  sword; 
No  doubt  he  strutted  him  proud  as  a  lord! 

Doffed  with  enmity,  donned  with  glee,  — 
Oh,  she  was  charming,  that  Sweet  P! 
And  when  it  was  over,  and  blood  aflame, 
Came  an  eager  cry  for   "A  game!"    "A 

game ! " 

"We'll  play  at  forfeits,"  Penelope  cried. 
"If  one  holdeth  aught  in  his  love  and  pride, 

"Let  each  lay  it  down  at  my  feet  in  turn, 
And  a  fine  from  me  shall  he  straightway  learn ! " 
What  held  they  all  in  their  love  and  pride  ? 
Straight  flew  a  hand  unto  every  side; 
Each  man  had  a  sword  and  nothing  more, 
And  the  swords  they  clanged  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor. 

Standing  there,  in  her  satin  gown. 

With  candlelight  on  her  yellow  crown, 

And  at  her  feet  a  bank  of  steel 

(I'll  wager  that  look  was  caught  by  Peale!) 

Penelope  held  her  rose  on  high  — 

"I  fine  each  one  for  a  leaf  to  try!" 

She  plucked  the  petals  and  blew  them  out, 
A  rain  of  red  they  fluttered  about. 
Over  the  floor  and  through  the  air 
Rushed  the  officers  here  and  there; 
When  lo !  a  cry !   The  door  burst  in ! 
"The  enemy  1"  Tumult,  terror,  and  din1 

Flew  a  hand  unto  every  side,  — 
Swords  ?  —  Penelope,  arms  thrown  wide 
Leapt  that  heap  of  steel  before; 
Swords  behind  her  upon  the  floor; 
Facing  her  countrymen  staunch  and  bold, 
Who  dared  the  river  of  death  and  cold, 
Who  swept  them  down  on  a  rollicking  horde, 
And  found  they  never  a  man  with  sword! 

And  so  it  happened  (but  not  by  chance), 
In  '76  there  was  given  a  dance 
By  a  witch  with  a  rose  and  a  satin  gown 
(Painted  in  Philadelphia  town), 
Mistress  Penelope  Penwick,  she, 
Called  by  her  father,  "My  Sweet  P." 

VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD. 


The  British  soldiers,  thinking  the  war  virtually 
ended,  had  grown  careless,  and  Howe  and  Corn- 
wallis  had  returned  to  New  York  to  celebrate 
Christmas.  It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Washing 
ton  decided  to  attack.  More  than  ten  hours  were 


1 88 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


consumed  in  getting  across  the  river,  which  was 
blocked  with  ice.  At  daybreak  on  the  26th,  Wash 
ington  entered  Trenton,  and  surprised  the  enemy. 

ACROSS  THE   DELAWARE 

THE  winter  night  is  cold  and  drear, 

Along  the  river's  sullen  flow; 
The  cruel  frost  is  camping  here  — 

The  air  has  living  blades  of  snow. 
Look !  pushing  from  the  icy  strand, 

With  ensigns  freezing  in  the  air, 
There  sails  a  small  but  mighty  band, 

Across  the  dang'rous  Delaware. 

Oh,  wherefore,  soldiers,  would  you  fight 

The  bayonets  of  a  winter  storm  ? 
In  truth  it  were  a  better  night 

For  blazing  fire  and  blankets  warm ! 
We  seek  to  trap  a  foreign -foe, 

Who  fill  themselves  with  stolen  fare; 
We  carry  freedom  as  we  go 

Across  the  storm-swept  Delaware! 

The  night  is  full  of  lusty  cheer 

Within  the  Hessians'  merry  camp; 
And  faint  and  fainter  on  the  ear 

Doth  fall  the  heedless  sentry's  tramp. 
O  hirelings,  this  new  nation's  rage 

Is  something  't  is  not  well  to  dare ; 
You  are  not  fitted  to  engage 

These  men  from  o'er  the  Delaware! 

A  rush  —  a  shout  —  a  clarion  call, 

Salute  the  early  morning's  gray: 
Now,  roused  invaders,  yield  or  fall: 

The  refuge-land  has  won  the  day! 
Soon  shall  the  glorious  news  be  hurled 

Wherever  men  have  wrongs  to  bear; 
For  freedom's  torch  illumes  the  world, 

And  God  has  crossed  the  Delaware! 
WILL  CARLETON. 


The  surprise  was  complete.  Eighteen  of  the 
enemy  were  killed  and  over  a  thousand  made 
prisoners,  while  the  American  loss  was  only  four. 
The  remainder  of  the  enemy  retreated  in  disorder 
to  Princeton,  leaving  their  sick  and  wounded,  and 
all  their  heavy  arms  and  baggage  behind  them. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  TRENTON 

ON  Christmas-day  in  seventy-six, 
Our  ragged  troops,  with  bayonets  fixed, 
For  Trenton  marched  away. 


The  Delaware  see!  the  boats  below! 
The  light  obscured  by  hail  and  snow! 
But  no  signs  of  dismay. 

Our  object  was  the  Hessian  band, 
That  dared  invade  fair  freedom's  land, 

And  quarter  in  that  place. 
Great  Washington  he  led  us  on, 
Whose  streaming  flag,  in  storm  or  sun, 

Had  never  known  disgrace. 

In  silent  march  we  passed  the  night, 
Each  soldier  panting  for  the  fight, 

Though  quite  benumbed  with  frost. 
Greene  on  the  left  at  six  began, 
The  right  was  led  by  Sullivan 

Who  ne'er  a  moment  lost. 

Their  pickets  stormed,  the  alarm  was  spread, 
That  rebels  risen  from  the  dead 

Were  marching  into  town. 
Some  scampered  here,  some  scampered  there, 
And  some  for  action  did  prepare; 

But  soon  their  arms  laid  down. 

Twelve  hundred  servile  miscreants, 
With  all  their  colors,  guns,  and  tents, 

Were  trophies  of  the  day. 
The  frolic  o'er,  the  bright  canteen, 
In  centre,  front,  and  rear  was  seen 

Driving  fatigue  away. 

Now,  brothers  of  the  patriot  bands, 
Let's  sing  deliverance  from  the  hands 

Of  arbitrary  sway. 
And  as  our  life  is  but  a  span, 
Let 's  touch  the  tankard  while  we  can, 

In  memory  of  that  day. 

At  Princeton  Cornwallis  joined  them,  and  on 
January  2,  1777,  advanced  against  Trenton  at  the 
head  of  eight  thousand  men.  By  the  time  he  reached 
there,  Washington  had  withdrawn  his  whole  force 
beyond  a  little  stream  called  the  Assunpink,  where 
he  repelled  two  British  assaults.  That  night,  he 
marched  toward  Princeton,  routed  a  British  de 
tachment  of  two  thousand,  and  took  up  a  strong 
position  on  the  heights  at  Morristown. 

TRENTON  AND  PRINCETON 

[December  26.  1776- January  3,  1777] 

ON  December,  the  sixth 

And  the  twentieth  day. 
Our  troops  attacked  the  Hessians, 

And  sbow'd  them  gallant  play. 


ASSUNPINK  AND   PRINCETON 


189 


Our  roaring  cannon  taught  them 

Our  valor  for  to  know; 
We  fought  like  brave  Americans 

Against  a  haughty  foe. 

The  chiefs  were  kill'd  or  taken, 

The  rest  were  put  to  flight, 
And  some  arrived  at  Princeton, 

Half-fainting  with  affright. 

The  third  of  January, 

The  morning  being  clear. 
Our  troops  attack'd  the  regulars, 

At  Princeton,  we  do  hear. 

About  a  mile  from  Princeton, 

The  battle  is  begun, 
And  many  a  haughty  Briton  fell 

Before  the  fight  was  done. 

And  what  our  gallant  troops  have  done 

We'll  let  the  British  know; 
We  fought  like  brave  Americans 

Against  a  haughty  foe. 

The  British,  struck  with  terror, 

And  frighted,  ran  away: 
They  ran  across  the  country 

Like  men  in  deep  dismay, 

Crying  to  every  one  they  met, 
"Oh!   hide  us!   hide  us!   do! 

The  rebels  will  devour  us. 
So  hotly  they  pursue." 

Oh,  base,  ungenerous  Britons! 

To  call  us  by  that  name; 
We're  fighting  for  our  liberty, 

Our  just  and  lawful  claim. 

We  trust  in  Heaven's  protection, 

Nor  fear  to  win  the  day; 
WThen  time  shall  come  we'll  crown  our 
deeds 

With  many  a  loud  huzza! 

Our  foes  are  fled  to  Brunswick, 
Where  they  are  close  confined; 

Our  men  they  are  unanimous, 
In  Freedom's  cause  combined. 

Success  to  General  Washington, 
And  Gates  and  Putnam,  too, 

Both  officers  and  privates, 
Who  liberty  pursue. 


ASSUNPINK  AND   PRINCETON 

[January  3,  1777] 

GLORIOUS  the  day  when  in  arms  at  Assun- 

pink. 

And  after  at  Princeton  the  Briton  we  met : 
Few  in  both  armies  —  they  'd  skirmishes  call 

them, 
Now  hundreds  of  thousands  in  battle  are 

set. 

But  for  the  numbers  engaged,  let  me  tell  you, 
Smart  brushes  they  were,  and  two  battles 

that  told; 

There 't  was  I  first  drew  a  bead  on  a  foeman — 
I,  a  mere  stripling,  not  twenty  years  old. 

Tell  it  ?  Well,  friends,  that  is  just  my  inten 
tion; 

There 's  nothing  a  veteran  hates  and  abhors 
More  than  a  chance  lost  to  tell  his  adventures, 

Or  give  you  his  story  of  battles  and  wars. 
Nor  is  it  wonder  old  men  are  loquacious, 

And  talk,  if  you  listen,  from  sun  unto  sun; 
Youth  has  the  power  to  be  up  and  be  doing, 

While  age  can  but  tell  of  the  deeds  it  has 
done. 

Ranged  for  a  mile  on  the  banks  of  Assun- 

pink, 
There,  southward  of  Trenton,  one  morning 

we  lay. 
When,  with  his  red-coats  all  marshalled  to 

meet  us, 
Cornwallis  came  fiercely  at  close  of  the 

day— 
Driving  some  scouts  who  had  gone  out  with 

Longstreet, 
From  where  they  were  crossing  at  Shabba- 

conk  Run  — 
Trumpets  loud  blaring,  drums  beating,  flags 

flying  — 

Three  hours,  by  the  clock,  before  setting 
of  sun. 

Two  ways  were  left  them  by  which  to  assail 

us, 

And  neither  was  perfectly  to  their  desire  — 
One  was  the  bridge  we  controlled  by  our 

cannon, 

The  other  the  ford  that  was  under  our  fire. 
"Death    upon    one    side,    and    Dismal    on 

t'  other," 

Said  Sambo,  our  cook,  as  he  gazed  on  our 
foes: 


i  go 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Cheering  and  dauntless  they  marched  to  the 

battle, 

And,  doubtful  of  choice,  both  the  dangers 
they  chose. 

Down  at  the  ford,  it  was  said,  that  the  water 
Was  reddened  with  blood  from  the  soldiers 

who  fell: 
As  for  the  bridge,  when  they  tried  it,  their 

forces 

Were  beaten  with  terrible  slaughter,  as  well. 
Grape-shot   swept   causeway,   and    pattered 

on  water, 
And  riddled  their  columns,  that  broke  and 

gave  way; 
Thrice  they  charged  boldly,  and  thrice  they 

retreated ; 

Then  darkness  came  down,  and  so  ended 
the  fray. 

How  did  I  get  there  ?  I  came  from  our  corn- 
mill 

At  noon  of  the  day  when  the  battle  begun. 

Bringing  in  flour  to  the  troops  under  Proctor; 

'T  was  not  very  long  ere  that  errand  was 

done. 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  never  enlisted, 
Though  Jacob,  my  brother,  had  entered 

with  Wayne; 
But  the  fight  stirred  me;    I  sent  back  the 

horses, 
And  made  up  my  mind  with  the  rest  to  re- 


We  camped  on  our  side  —  the  south  —  of 

Assunpink, 
While  they  bivouacked  for  the  night  upon 

theirs ; 

Both  posting  sentries  and  building  up  watch- 
fires, 
With   those   on   both   sides   talking  over 

affairs. 
"Washington  's  caught    in  a   trap!"    said 

Cornwallis, 
And  smiled  with  a  smile  that  was  joyous 

and  grim; 

"Fox !  but  I  have  him !"  —  the  earl  had  mis 
taken  ; 

The  fox,  by  the  coming  of  daylight,  had 
him. 

Early   that   night,    when    the    leaders    held 

council, 

Both  St.  Clair  and  Reed  said  our  action 
was  clear; 


Useless  to  strike  at  the  van  of  our  foemen  — 
His  force  was  too  strong;  we  must  fall  on 

his  rear. 

Washington   thought   so,   and   bade   us   re 
plenish 
Our  watchfires  till  nearly  the  dawn  of  the 

day; 
Setting  some  more  to  make  feint  of  intrench- 

.ing. 

While  swiftly  in  darkness  the  rest  moved 
away. 

Marching  by  Sandtown,  and  Quaker  Bridge 

crossing, 
We  passed  Stony  Creek  a  full  hour  before 

dawn, 

Leaving  there   Mercer  with   one  scant  bat 
talion 
Our  foes  to  amuse,  should  they  find  we 

were  gone; 
Then  the  main  force  pushed  its  way  into 

Princeton, 
All  ready  to  strike  those  who  dreamed  of 

no  blow; 

Only  a  chance  that  we  lost  not  our  labor, 
And  slipped  through  our  fingers,  unknow 
ing,  the  foe. 

Mawhood's  brigade,  never  feeling  its  danger. 
Had  started  for  Trenton  at  dawn  of  the 

day. 
Crossed    Stony  Creek,  after  we   had  gone 

over, 
When  Mercer's  weak  force  they  beheld  on 

its  way; 
Turning  contemptuously  back  to  attack  it. 

They  drove  it  with  ease  in  disorder  ahead  — 
Firelocks  alone  were  no  match  for  their  can 
non  — 

A  fight,  and  then  flight,  and  brave  Mercer 
lay  dead. 

Murdered,   some  said,  while  imploring   for 

quarter  — 
A  dastardly  deed,  if  the  thing  had  been 

true  — 
Cruel  our  foes,  but  in  that  thing  we  wronged 

them, 

And  let  us  in  all  give  the  demon  his  due. 
Gallant  Hugh  Mercer  fell  sturdily  fighting, 
So  long  as  his  right  arm  his  sabre  could 

wield, 

Stretching  his  enemies  bleeding  around  him, 
And  then,  overpowered,  fell  prone  on  the 
field. 


BETSY'S   BATTLE   FLAG 


191 


Hearing  the  firing,  we  turned  and  we  met 

them, 

Our  cannon  replying  to  theirs  with  a  will ; 
Fiercely  with  grape  and  with  canister  swept 

them, 
And  chased  them  in  wrath  from  the  brow 

of  the  hill. 

Racing  and  chasing  it  was  into  Princeton, 
Where,  seeking  the  lore  to  be  taught  in  that 

hall, 
Redcoats  by  scores  entered  college,  but  stayed 

not  — 

We  rudely  expelled  them  with  powder  and 
ball. 

Only  a  skirmish,  you    see,  though  a  sharp 

one  — 

It  did  not  last  over  the  fourth  of  an  hour; 

But  't  was  a  battle  that  did  us  this  service  — 

No  more,  from  that  day,  had  we  fear  of 

their  power. 

Trenton  revived  us,  Assunpink  encouraged, 
But  Princeton  gave  hope  that  we  held  to 

the  last; 
Flood-tide  had  come  on   the  black,   sullen 

water 
And  ebb-tide  for  ever  and  ever  had  passed. 

Yes !  't  was  the  turn  of  the  tide  in  our  favor  — 

A  turn  of  the  tide  to  a  haven  that  bore. 
Had  Lord  Cornwallis  crossed  over  Assunpink 
That  day  we  repelled  him,  our  fighting 

were  o'er. 

Had  he  o'ertaken  us  ere  we  smote  Mawhood, 
All  torn  as  we  were,  it  seems  certain  to 

me, 

I  would  not  chatter  to  you  about  battles, 
And  you  and  your  children  would  not  have 
been  free. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


"Thus  in  a  brief  campaign  of  three  weeks, 
Washington  had  rallied  the  fragments  of  a  de 
feated  and  broken  army,  fought  two  successful 
battles,  taken  nearly  two  thousand  prisoners,  and 
recovered  the  state  of  New  Jersey." 


SEVENTY-SIX 

WHAT  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 

When,  through  the  fresh-awakened  land, 
The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung 
And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand! 


Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 
And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 

And   streams,  whose  springs  were   yet   un- 
found, 

Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 
Into  the  forest's  heart. 

Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain-river  swift  and  cold; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold,  — 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 
And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 

To  battle  to  the  death. 

The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  that  day 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 
And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun; 

Already  blood,  on  Concord's  plain, 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore; 

In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred  — 

The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


The  question  of  a  national  flag,  which  had  been 
under  consideration  for  a  long  time,  was  now 
finally  settled.  There  is  a  tradition  that  in  June, 
1776,  General  Washington  and  a  committee  of 
Congress  had  called  upon  Mrs.  John  Ross,  of 
Philadelphia,  and  requested  her  to  make  a  flag 
after  a  design  which  Washington  furnished,  which 
she  did,  producing  the  first  "stars  and  stripes." 


BETSY'S  BATTLE   FLAG 

FROM  dusk  till  dawn  the  livelong  night 

She  kept  the  tallow  dips  alight, 

And  fast  her  nimble  fingers  flew 

To  sew  the  stars  upon  the  blue. 

With  weary  eyes  and  aching  head 

She  stitched  the  stripes  of  white  and  red, 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  when  the  day  came  up  the  stair 
Complete  across  a  carven  chair 
Hung  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

Like  shadows  in  the  evening  gray 
The  Continentals  filed  away, 
With  broken  boots  and  ragged  coats, 
But  hoarse  defiance  in  their  throats; 
They  bore  the  marks  of  want  and  cold, 
And  some  were  lame  and  some  were  old, 
And  some  with  wounds  untended  bled, 
But  floating  bravely  overhead 
Was  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

When  fell  the  battle's  leaden  rain, 
The  soldier  hushed  his  moans  of  pain 
And  raised  his  dying  head  to  see 
King  George's  troopers  turn  and  flee. 
Their  charging  column  reeled  and  broke, 
And  vanished  in  the  rolling  smoke, 
Before  the  glory  of  the  stars, 
The  snowy  stripes,  and  scarlet  bars 
Of  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

The  simple  stone  of  Betsy  Ross 
Is  covered  now  with  mold  and  moss, 
But  still  her  deathless  banner  flies, 
And  keeps  the  color  of  the  skies. 
A  nation  thrills,  a  nation  bleeds, 
A  nation  follows  where  it  leads, 
And  every  man  is  proud  to  yield 
His  life  upon  a  crimson  field 
For  Betsy's  battle  flag! 

MINNA  IRVING. 


It  was  not,  however,  until  Saturday,  June  14, 
1777,  that  a  flag  was  formally  adopted  by  Congress. 
On  that  day,  Congress  "Resolved,  That  the  flag  of 
the  thirteen  United  States  be  thirteen  stripes  al 
ternate  red  and  white;  that  the  union  be  thirteen 
stars,  white  in  a  blue  field,  representing  a  new 
constellation."  Save  for  the  addition  of  a  star  for 
each  new  state  admitted  to  the  Union,  this  is  the 
flag  of  the  United  States  to-day. 

THE   AMERICAN    FLAG 


WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 


Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 


Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven  — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 


Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on; 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas!  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee., 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 


THE   MARCHING   SONG    OF   STARK'S   MEN 


193 


The  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 
And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 

Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 


With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet. 
And    Freedom's    banner    streaming    o'< 
us? 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


CHAPTER   VI 
"THE  FATE  OF  SIR  JACK  BRAG" 


Defeated  in  Jersey,  the  English  turned  with 
increased  vigor  to  the  task  of  securing  the  line  of 
the  Hudson.  An  army  under  General  Burgoyne, 
starting  from  Canada,  was  to  march  down  the 
Hudson  to  Albany;  a  second,  under  Colonel  Saint. 
Leger,  was  to  descend  the  Mohawk  valley  and 
unite  with  Burgoyne;  while  a  third,  under  Sir 
William  Howe,  was  to  ascend  the  river  to  Albany, 
thus  completing  the  conquest  of  New  York. 
Burgoyne  began  his  advance  early  in  June  with  an 
army  of  eight  thousand  men;  but  soon  ran  short 
of  supplies,  and  finally,  on  August  13,  detached 
an  expedition  to  the  little  village  of  Bennington, 
where  the  Americans  had  collected  horses  and 
stores.  Word  of  its  approach  was  sent  forward 
and  Colonel  John  Stark  prepared  to  give  it  a  warm 
reception- 

THE   RIFLEMAN'S   SONG   AT 
BENNINGTON 

WHY  come  ye  hither,  stranger  ? 

Your  mind  what  madness  fills? 
In  our  valleys  there  is  danger, 

And  danger  on  our  hills! 
Hear  ye  not  the  singing 

Of  the  bugle,  wild  and  free? 
Full  soon  ye '11  know  the  ringing 

Of  the  rifle  from  the  tree! 
The  rifle,  the  sharp  rifle! 
In  our  hands  it  is  no  trifle! 

Ye  ride  a  goodly  steed: 

He  may  know  another  master: 
Ye  forward  come  with  speed, 

But  ye '11  learn  to  back  much  faster, 
When  ye  meet  our  mountain  boys 

And  their  leader,  Johnny  Stark! 
Lads  who  make  but  little  noise, 

But  who  always  hit  the  mark 
With  the  rifle,  the  true  rifle! 
In  their  hands  will  prove  no  trifle! 

Had  ye  no  graves  at  home 

Across  the  briny  water, 
That  hither  ye  must  come. 

Like  bullocks  to  the  slaughter? 


If  we  the  work  must  do, 

Why,  the  sooner  't  is  begun, 
If  flint  and  trigger  hold  but  true, 
The  quicker  't  will  be  done 
By  the  rifle,  the  good  rifle! 
In  our  hands  it  is  no  trifle! 


Within  a  day,  eight  hundred  yeomen  were 
marching  under  Stark's  orders.  He  was  joined  by 
a  regiment  under  Colonel  Seth  Warner,  and  on 
August  15,  1777,  in  the  midst  of  a  drenching  rain, 
set  out  to  meet  the  enemy. 


THE  MARCHING  SONG  OF  STARK'S 

MEN 

[August  15,  1777] 

MARCH  !   March !   March !  from  sunrise  till 

it's  dark, 

And  let  no  man  straggle  on  the  way! 
March!    March!   March!  as  we  follow  old 

John  Stark, 
For  the  old  man  needs  us  all  to-day. 

Load !  Load !  Load !  Three  buckshot  and  a 

ball, 
With  a  hymn-tune  for  a  wad  to  make  them 

stay! 
But  let  no  man  dare  to  fire  till  he  gives  the 

word  to  all, 
Let  no  man  let  the  buckshot  go  astray. 

Fire!    Fire!    Fire!    Fire  all  along  the  line, 
When  we  meet  those  bloody  Hessians  in 


array 


They  shall  have  every  grain  from  this  pow 
der-horn  of  mine, 
Unless  the  cowards  turn  and  run  away. 

Home!    Home!    Home!    When  the  fight  is 

fought  and  won, 

To  the  home  where  the  women  watch  and 
pray! 


194 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


To  tell  them  how  John  Stark  finished  what 

he  had  begun, 

And  to  hear  them  thank  our  God  for  the 
day. 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

Stark  found  Baum  and  his  Hessians  about  six 
miles  distant,  and  the  latter  hastily  took  up  a 
strong  position  on  some  rising  ground,  and  began 
to  throw  up  intrenchments.  Stark  laid  his  plans 
to  storm  this  position  on  the  morrow.  During  the 
night,  a  company  of  Berkshire  militia  arrived,  and 
with  them  the  warlike  parson  of  Pittsfield,  Thomas 
Allen. 

PARSON   ALLEN'S   RIDE 

[August  15,  1777] 

THE  "Catamount  Tavern"  is  lively  to-night. 
The  boys  of  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire 

are  here. 

Assembled  and  grouped  in  the  lingering  light, 
To  greet  Parson  Allen  with  shout  and  with 
cheer. 

Over  mountain  and  valley,   from  Pittsfield 

green, 
Through  the  driving  rain  of  that  August 

day, 

The  "Flock"  marched  on  with  martial  mien. 
And    the   Parson   rode   in  his  "one-hoss 
shay." 

<:  Three  cheers  for  old  Berkshire!"  the  Gen 
eral  said, 
As  the  boys    of  New  England  drew  up 

face  to  face, 
"Baum  bids  us  a  breakfast  to-morrow  to 

spread. 

And  the    Parson  is   here   to    say  us    the 
'grace.'" 

"The  lads  who  are  with  me  have  come  here 

to  fight, 
And  we    know   of    no    grace,"  was    the 

Parson's  reply, 
"  Save  the  name  of  Jehovah,  our  country  and 

right, 

Which  your  own  Ethan  Allen  pronounced 
at  Fort  Ti." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Stark,  "there'll  be  fight 
ing  to  do, 

If  you  think  you  can  wait  for  the  morning 
light, 


And,  Parson,  I'll  conquer   the  British  with 

you, 
Or  Molly  Stark  sleeps  a  widow  at  night." 

What  the  Parson  dreamed  in  that  Bennington 

camp, 
Neither  Yankee  nor  Prophet  would  dare 

to  guess; 

A  vision,  perhaps,  of  the  King  David  stamp. 
With  a  mixture  of  Cromwell  and  good 
Queen  Bess. 

But  we  know  the  result  of  that  glorious  day, 
And  the  victory  won  ere  the  night  came 

down ; 

How  Warner  charged  in  the  bitter  fray. 
With    Rossiter,    Hobart,    and    old    John 
Brown: 

And  how  in  the  lull  of  the  three  hours'  fight, 

The  Parson  harangued  the  Tory  line, 
As  he  stood  on  a  stump,  with  his  musket 

bright. 

And  sprinkled  his  texts  with  the  powder 
fine:  — 

The  sword  of  the  Lord  is  our  battle-cry, 
A  refuge  sure  in  the  hour  of  need. 

And  freedom  and  faith  can  never  die, 
Is  article  first  of  the  Puritan  creed. 

"Perhaps  the  'occasion'  was  rather  rash," 
He  remarked  to  his  comrades  after  the  rout, 

"For  behind  a  bush  I  saw  a  flash, 
But  I  fired  that  way  and  put  it  out." 

And  many  the  sayings,  eccentric  and  queer, 
Repeated   and    sung   through   the   whole 

country  side, 

And  quoted  in  Berkshire  for  many  a  year, 
Of  the  Pittsfield  march  and  the  Parson's 
ride. 

All  honor  to  Stark  and  his  resolute  men, 
To  the  Green  Mountain  Boys  all  honor 

and  praise, 
While  with  shout  and  with  cheer  we  welcome 

again. 

The   Parson  who   came  in  his  one-horse 
chaise. 

WALLACE  BRUCE. 


The  next  day.  August  16,  1777,  dawned  clear 
and  bright,  and  the  morning  was  consumed  in 
preparations  for  the  attack.  Stark  managed  to 


THE   BATTLE   OF   BENNINGTON 


195 


throw  half  his  force  on  Baum's  rear  and  flanks, 
and,  early  in  the  afternoon,  assaulted  the  enemy 
on  all  sides.  The  Germans  stood  their  ground  and 
fought  desperately,  but  they  were  soon  thrown 
into  disorder,  and  at  the  end  of  two  hours  were 
all  either  killed  or  captured. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   BENNINGTON 

[August  16,  1777] 

UP  through  a  cloudy  sky,  the  sun 

Was  buffeting  his  way, 
On  such  a  morn  as  ushers  in 

A  sultry  August  day. 
Hot  was  the  air  —  and  hotter  yet 

Men's  thoughts  within  them  grew: 
They  Britons,  Hessians,  Tories  saw  — 

They  saw  their  homesteads  too. 

They  thought  of  all  their  country's  wrongs, 

They  thought  of  noble  lives 
Pour'd  out  in  battle  with  her  foes, 

They  thought  upoa  their  wives. 
Their  children,  and  their  aged  sires, 

Their  firesides,  churches,  God  — 
And    these    deep    thoughts    made    hallow'd 
ground 

Each  foot  of  soil  they  trod. 

Their  leader  was  a  brave  old  man, 

A  man  of  earnest  will; 
His  very  presence  was  a  host  — 

He'd  fought  at  Bunker  Hill. 
A  living  monument  he  stood 

Of  stirring  deeds  of  fame, 
Of  deeds  that  shed  a  fadeless  light 

On  his  own  deathless  name. 

Of  Charlestown's  flames,  of  Warren's  blood, 

His  presence  told  the  tale, 
It  made  each  hero's  heart  beat  high 

Though  lip  and  cheek  grew  pale; 
It  spoke  of  Princeton,  Morristown, 

Told  Trenton's  thrilling  story  — 
It  lit  futurity  with  hope. 

And  on  the  past  shed  glory. 

Who  were  those  men  —  their  leader  who  ? 

Where  stood  they  on  that  morn  ? 
The  men  were  Berkshire  yeomanry, 

Brave  men  as  e'er  were  born,  — 
Wrho  in  the  reaper's  merry  row 

Or  warrior  rank  could  stand 
Right  worthy  such  a  noble  troop, 

John  Stark  led  on  the  band. 


Wollamsac  wanders  by  the  spot 

Where  they  that  morning  stood; 
Then  roll'd  the  war-cloud  o'er  the  stream, 

The  waves  were  tinged  with  blood; 
And  the  near  hills  that  dark  cloud  girt, 

And  fires  like  lightning  flash 'd, 
And  shrieks  and  groans,  like  howling  blasts, 

Rose  as  the  bayonets  clash'd. 

The  night  before,  the  Yankee  host 

Came  gathering  from  afar, 
And  in  each  belted  bosom  glow'd 

The  spirit  of  the  war. 
As  full  of  fight,  through  rainy  storm, 

Night,  cloudy,  starless,  dark, 
They  came,  and  gathered  as  they  came, 

Around  the  valiant  Stark. 

There  was  a  Berkshire  parson  —  he 

And  all  his  flock  were  there, 
And  like  true  churchmen  militant 

The  arm  of  flesh  made  bare. 
Out  spake  the  Dominie  and  said, 

"For  battle  have  we  come 
These  many  times,  and  after  this 

We  mean  to  stay  at  home." 

"If  now  we  come  in  vain,"  said  Stark, 

"What!  will  you  go  to-night 
To  battle  it  with  yonder  troops, 

God  send  us  morning  light, 
And  we  will  give  you  work  enough: 

Let  but  the  morning  come, 
And  if  ye  hear  no  voice  of  war 

Go  back  and  stay  at  home." 

The    morning    came  —  there    stood    the 
foe, 

Stark  eyed  them  as  they  stood  — 
Few  words  he  spake  —  't  was  not  a  time 

For  moralizing  mood. 
"See  there  the  enemy,  my  boys! 

Now  strong  in  valor's  might, 
Beat  them,  or  Molly  Stark  will  sleep 

In  widowhood  to-night." 

Each  soldier  there  had  left  at  home 

A  sweetheart,  wife,  or  mother, 
A  blooming  sister,  or,  perchance, 

A  fair-hair'd,  blue-eyed  brother. 
Each  from  a  fireside  came,  and  thoughts 

Those  simple  words  awoke 
That  nerved  up  every  warrior's  arm 

And  guided  every  stroke. 


ig6 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Fireside  and  woman  —  mighty  words ! 

How  wondrous  is  the  spell 
They  work  upon  the  manly  heart, 

Who  knoweth  not  full  well? 
And  then  the  women  of  this  land, 

That  never  land  hath  known 
A  truer,  prouder  hearted  race, 

Each  Yankee  boy  must  own. 

Brief  eloquence  was  Stark's  —  nor  vain  — 

Scarce  utter'd  he  the  words, 
When  burst  the  musket's  rattling  peal 

Out-leap'd  the  flashing  swords; 
And  when  brave  Stark  in  after  time 

Told  the  proud  tale  of  wonder, 
He  said  the  battle  din  was  one 

"Continual  clap  of  thunder." 

Two  hours  they  strove  —  then  victory  crown'd 

The  gallant  Yankee  boys. 
Nought  but  the  memory  of  the  dead 

Bedimm'd  their  glorious  joys; 
Ay  —  there 's  the  rub  —  the  hour  of  strife, 

Though  follow  years  of  fame, 
Is  still  in  mournful  memory  link'd 

With  some  death-hallow'd  name. 

The  cypress  with  the  laurel  twines  — 

The  paean  sounds  a  knell, 
The  trophied  column  marks  the  spot 

Where  friends  and  brothers  fell. 
Fame's  mantle  a  funereal  pall 

Seems  to  the  grief-dimm'd  eye. 
For  ever  where  the  bravest  fall 

The  best  beloved  die. 

THOMAS  P.  RODMAN. 


Just  at  this  moment,  when  the  Americans, 
thinking  the  battle  over,  began  to  scatter  to  the 
plunder  of  the  German  camp,  a  relieving  force  of 
five  hundred  men,  sent  by  Burgoyne,  came  upon 
the  scene.  Luckily,  Seth  Warner  also  arrived  with 
fresh  men  at  this  juncture,  charged  furiously  upon 
the  British,  and  by  nightfall  had  killed  or  captured 
the  entire  column,  with  the  exception  ot  six  men, 
who  succeeded  in  reaching  the  British  camp. 


BENNINGTON 

[August  16,  1777] 

A  CYCLE  was  closed  and  rounded, 
A  continent  lost  and  won. 

When  Stark  and  his  men  went  over 
The  earthworks  at  Bennington. 


Slowly  down  from  the  northward, 

Billowing  fold  on  fold, 
Whelming  the  land  and  crushing, 

The  glimmering  glacier  rolled. 

Down  from  the  broad  St.  Lawrence, 
Bright  with  its  thousand  isles, 

Through  the  Canadian  woodlands, 
Sweet  with  the  summer  smiles, 

On  over  field  and  fastness, 

Village  and  vantage  coigne, 
Rolled  the  resistless  legions 

Led  by  the  bold  Burgoyne. 

Roared  the  craggy  ledges 
Looming  o'er  Lake  Champlain; 

Red  with  the  blaze  of  navies 
Quivered  the  land-locked  main; 

Soared  the  Vancour  eagle, 

Screaming,  across  the  sun; 
Deep  dived  the  loon  in  terror 

Under  Lake  Horicon. 

Panther  and  hart  together 

Fled  to  the  wilds  afar, 
From  the  flash  and  the  crash  of  the  can 
non 

And  the  rush  of  the  southward  war. 

But  at  last  by  the  lordly  river 

The  trampling  giant  swayed, 
And  his  massive  arm  swung  eastward 

Like  a  blindly-plunging  blade. 

New  England  felt  her  bosom 

Menaced  with  deadly  blow, 
And  her  minute-men  sprang  up  again 

And  flew  to  bar  the  foe. 

But  Stark  in  his  Hampshire  valley 
Watched  like  a  glowering  bear, 

That  hears  the  cry  go  sweeping  by 
Yet  stirs  not  from  his  lair; 

For  on  his  daring  spirit 

A  wrath  lay  like  a  spell,  — 
The  wrath  of  one  rewarded  ill 

For  a  great  work  wrought  right  well. 

Neighbor  and  friend  and  brother 
Flocked  to  his  side  in  vain,  — 

"What,  can  it  be  that  they  long  for  me 
To  ruin  their  cause  again  ? 


BENNINGTON 


197 


"Surely  the  northern  lights  are  bright. 

Surely  the  South  lies  still. 
Would  they  have  more  ?  —  Lo,  I  left  my 
sword 

On  the  crest  of  Bunker  Hill." 

But  at  last  from  his  own  New  Hampshire 

An  urgent  summons  came, 
That   stirred    his    heart    like    the    voice    of 
God 

From  Sinai's  walls  of  flame. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  he  rose  aloft; 

Again  he  grasped  the  brand,  — 
"For  the  cause  of  man  and  my  native  State, 

Not  for  an  ingrate  land!" 

Through  the  mist-veil  faintly  struggling, 

The  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
Reddened  the  leafy  village 

Of  white-walled  Bennington. 

Then  out  of  the  dismal  weather 
Came  many  a  sound  of  war,  — 

The  straggling  shots  and  the  volleys 
And  the  cries,  now  near  now  far. 

For  forms  half  seen  were  chasing 

The  phantom  forms  that  fled; 
And  ghostly  figures  grappled 

And  spectres  fought  and  bled; 

Till  the  mist  on  a  sudden  settled 

And  they  saw  before  them  fair, 
Over  a  hill  to  the  westward, 

An  island  in  the  air. 

There  were  tree-trunks  and  waving  branches, 
And  greensward  and  flowers  below; 

It  rose  in  a  dome  of  verdure 

From  the  mist-waves'  watery  flow. 

A  flag  from  its  summit  floated 

And  a  circling  earthwork  grew, 
As  the  arms  of  the  swarming  soldiers 

At  their  toil  unwonted  flew. 

"Aha!"  cried  the  Yankee  leader, 
"So  the  panther  has  turned  at  bay 

With  his  claws  of  steel  and  his  breath  of 

fire 
Behind  that  wall  of  clay ! 

"Our  steel  is  in  muscle  and  sinew. 
But  I  know,"  —  aud  his  voice  rang  free,  — 


"Right  well  I  know  we  shall  strike  a  blow 
That  the  world  will  leap  to  see." 

I  stood  by  a  blazing  city 

Till  the  fires  had  died  away, 
Save  a  flickering  gleam  in  the  ruins 

And  a  fitful  gleam  on  the  bay. 

But  a  swarthy  cove  by  the  water 
Blue-bristled  from  point  to  base, 

With  the  breath  of  demons,  bursting 
Through  the  crust  of  their  prison-place; 

And  another  beside  it  flaunted 

A  thousand  rags  of  red, 
Like  the  Plague  King's  dancing  banners 

On  a  mound  of  the  swollen  dead. 

Twin  brothers  of  flame  and  evil, 

In  their  quivering  living  light, 
They  ruled  with  a  frightful  beauty 

The  desolate  waste  of  night. 

Thus  did  the  battle  mountain 

Blazon  with  flashes  dire; 
The  leaguered  crest  responded 

In  a  coronal  of  fire. 

The  tough  old  fowling-pieces 

In  huddling  tumult  rang. 
Louder  the  muskets'  roaring! 

Shriller  the  rifles'  clang! 

Hour  after  hour  the  turmoil 

Gathered  and  swelled  apace. 
Till  the  hill  seemed  a  volcano 

Bursting  in  every  place. 

Then  the  lights  grew  faint  and  meagre, 
Though  the  hideous  noise  rolled  on; 

And  out  of  a  bath  of  glory 
Uprose  the  noble  sun. 

It  brightened  the  tossing  banner; 

It  yellowed  the  leafy  crest; 
It  smote  on  the  serried  weapons, 

On  helmet  and  scarlet  breast. 

It  drove  on  the  mist  below  them 

Where  Stark  and  his  foremost  stood, 

Flashing  volley  for  volley 
Into  the  stubborn  wood. 

A  thousand  stalwart  figures 
Sprang  from  the  gulf  profound, 


198 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  thousand  guns  uplifted 

Went  whirling  round  and  round. 

Like  some  barbarian  onslaught 

On  a  lofty  Roman  hold; 
Like  the  upward  rush  of  Titans 

On  Olympian  gods  of  old; 

With  a  swirl  of  the  wrangling  torrents 

As  they  dash  on  a  castle  wall; 
With  the  flame-seas  skyward  surging 

At  the  mountain  demon's  call, 

Heedless  of  friend  and  brother 

Stricken  to  earth  below, 
The  sons  of  New  England  bounded 

On  the  breastwork  of  the  foe. 

Each  stalwart  form  on  the  ramparts 

Swaying  his  battered  gun 
Seemed  a  vengeful  giant,  looming 

Against  the  rising  sun. 

The  pond'rous  clubs  swept  crashing 
Through  the  bayonets  round  their  feet 

As  a  woodman's  axe-edge  crashes 
Through  branches  mailed  in  sleet, 

Shattering  head  and  shoulder, 

Splintering  arm  and  thigh, 
Hurling  the  redcoats  earthward 

Like  bolts  from  an  angry  sky. 

Faster  each  minute  and  faster 
The  yeomen  swarm  over  the  wall, 

And  narrower  grows  the  circle 
And  thicker  the  Britons  fall; 

Till  Baum  with  his  Hessian  swordsmen 

Swift  to  the  rescue  flies, 
The  frown  of  the  Northland  on  their  brows 

And  the  war-light  in  their  eyes. 

Back  reeled  the  men  of  Berkshire, 

The  mountaineers  gave  back, 
But  Stark  and  his  Hampshire  yeomen 

Flung  full  across  their  track. 

The  stern  Teutonic  mother 

Well  might  she  grandly  eye 
The  prowess  dread  of  her  war-swarms  red 

As  they  racked  the  earth  and  sky. 

Like  rival  wrestling  athletes 
Grappled  the  East  and  West. 


With  straining  thews  and  staring  eyes 
They  swayed  and  strove  for  the  royal  prize, 
A  continent's  virgin  breast. 

Till  at  last  as  a  strong  man's  wrenching 

Shatters  a  brittle  vase, 
The  lustier  arms  of  the  Westland 

Shattered  the  elder  race. 

Baum  and  his  bravest  cohorts 

Lay  on  the  trampled  sod, 
And  Stark 's  strong  cry  rose  clear  and  high, 

"Yield  in  the  name  of  God!" 

Then  the  sullen  Hessians  yielded, 

Girt  by  an  iron  ring, 
And  down  from  the  summit  fluttered 

The  flag  of  the  British  king. 

Vainly  the  tardy  Breyman 

May  strive  that  height  to  gain; 

More  work  for  the  Hampshire  war-clubs! 
More  room  for  the  Hessian  slain! 

The  giant's  arm  is  severed. 

The  giant's  blood  flows  free, 
And  he  staggers  in  the  pathway 

That  leads  to  the  distant  sea. 

The  Berkshire  and  Hampshire  yeomen 
With  the  men  of  the  Hudson  join, 

And  the  gathering  flood  rolls  over 
The  host  of  the  bold  Burgoyne. 

For  a  cycle  was  closed  and  rounded, 

A  continent  lost  and  won, 
When  Stark  and  his  men  went  over 

The  earthworks  at  Bennington. 

W.  H.  BABCOCK. 


Saint  Leger,  meanwhile,  had  landed  at  Oswego 
and  advanced  against  Fort  Stanwix.  General 
Nicholas  Herkimer,  commander  of  the  militia  of 
Tryon  County,  at  the  head  of  eight  hundred  men, 
started  to  the  rescue.  He  met  the  enemy,  on 
August  5,  at  Oriskany,  and  there  followed  the 
most  obstinate  and  murderous  battle  of  the  Revo 
lution.  Both  sides  claimed  the  victory. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   ORISKANY 

[August  6,  1777] 

AP  men  who  fight  for  home  and  child  and  wife, 
As  men  oblivious  of  life 
In  holy  martyrdom, 


SAINT  LEGER 


199 


The  yeomen  of  the  valley  fought  that  day, 
Throughout  thy  fierce  and  deadly  fray,  — 
Blood-red  Oriskany. 

From  rock  and  tree  and  clump  of  twisted 

brush 
The  hissing  gusts  of  battle  rush,  — 

Hot-breathed  and  horrible! 
The  roar,  the  smoke,  like  mist  on  stormy 

seas. 

Sweep  through  thy  splintered  trees,  — 
Hard-fought  Oriskany. 

Heroes  are  born  in  such  a  chosen  hour; 
From  common  men  they  rise,  and  tower, 

Like  thee,  brave  Herkimer! 
Who    wounded,    steedless,    still    beside    the 

beech 
Cheered  on  thy  men,  with  sword  and  speech, 

In  grim  Oriskany. 

But  ere  the  sun  went  toward  the  tardy  night. 
The  valley  then  beheld  the  light 

Of  freedom's  victory; 
And  wooded  Tryon  snatched  from  British 

arms 
The  empire  of  a  million  farms  — 

On  bright  Oriskany. 

The  guns  of  Stanwix  thunder  to  the  skies; 
The  rescued  wilderness  replies; 

Forth  dash  the  garrison ! 
And  routed  Tories,  with  their  savage  aids, 
Sink  reddening  through  the  sullied  shades  — 

From  lost  Oriskany. 

CHAELES  D.  HELMER. 


Saint  Leger  rallied  his  shaken  columns  and  set 
tled  down  to  besiege  the  fort,  which  laughed  at 
his  summons  to  surrender.  Soon  afterwards,  news 
of  Oriskany  and  of  the  siege  arrived  at  General 
Schuyler's  headquarters  at  Stillwater,  and  Bene 
dict  Arnold  set  out  at  once  for  Fort  Stanwix  at  the 
head  of  twelve  hundred  men.  Such  exaggerated 
reports  of  the  size  of  his  force  were  conveyed  to 
Saint  Leger  that,  on  August  22,  he  raised  the  siege 
and  retreated  to  Canada. 


SAINT  LEGER 

[August.  1777] 

FROM  out  of  the  North-land  his  leaguer  he  led, 

Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger; 
And  the  war-lust  was  strong  in  his  heart  as 
he  sped; 


Their   courage,  he  cried,  it  shall  die  f  the 

throat 
When  they  mark  the  proud  standards  that  over 

us  float  — 

See  rover  and  ranger,  redskin  and  redcoat! 
Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger. 

He  hurried  by  water,  he  scurried  by  land, 

Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger, 
Till  closely  he  cordoned  the  patriot  band: 
Surrender,  he  bade,  or  I  tighten  the  net  I 
Surrender?  they  mocked  him,  we  laugh  at 

your  threat  I 

By  Heaven !  he  thundered,  you'll  live  to  regret 
Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger! 

He  mounted  his  mortars,  he  smote  with  his 
shell. 

Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger; 
Then  fumed  in  a  fury  that  futile  they  fell; 
But  he  counselled  with  rum  till  he  chuckled, 

elate, 

As  he  sat  in  his  tent-door,  Egad,  we  can  wait, 
For  famine  is  famous  to  open  a  gate  I 
Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger. 

But  lo !  as  he  waited,  was  borne  to  his  ear  — 
Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger  — 

A  whisper  of  dread  and  a  murmur  of  fear! 

They  come,  and  as  leaves  are  their  numbers 
enrolled  I 

They  come,  and  their  onset  may  not  be  con 
trolled, 

For  't  is  Arnold  who  heads  them,  't  is  Arnold 
the  bold  — 

Saint  Leger.  Saint  Leger! 

Retreat/    Was  the  word  e'er  more  bitterly 
said, 

Saint  Leger,  Saint  Leger, 
Than  when  to  the  North-land  your  leaguer 

you  led  ? 

Alas,  for  Burgoyne  in  his  peril  and  pain  — 
Who  lists  in  the  night  for  the  tramp  of  that 

train ! 

And,  alas,  for  the  boasting,  the  vaunting,  the 
vain 

Saint  Leger! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


Saint  Leger's  retreat,  joined  to  the  disaster  at 
Bennington,  left  Burgoyne  in  an  exceedingly 
critical  condition.  The  Americans  hemmed  him 
in,  front  and  rear,  and  inc-eased  rapidly  in  num 
bers  ;  he  had  received  no  news  from  Howe,  who 


2OO 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


was  supposed  to  be  on  his  way  up  the  Hudson  to 
join  him;  and  he  found  it  more  and  more  difficult 
to  get  provisions. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   SIR   JACK 
BRAG 

SAID  Burgoyne  to  his  men,  as  they  passed  in 

review, 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 
These  rebels  their  course  very  quickly  will 

rue, 
And  fly  as  the  leaves  'fore  the  autumn  tempest 

flew, 
When  him  who  is  your  leader  they  know, 

boys! 

They  with  men  have  now  to  deal, 
And  we  soon  will  make  them  feel  — 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 
That  a  loyal  Briton's  arm,  and  a  loyal  Briton's 

steel, 
Can  put  to  flight  a  rebel,  as  quick  as  other  foe, 

boys! 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo, 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo-o-o-o,  boys! 

As  to  Sa-ra-tog'  he  came,  thinking  how  to 

jo  the  game, 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 
He  began  to  see  the  grubs,  in  the  branches 

of  his  fame, 
He  began  to  have  the  trembles,  lest  a  flash 

should  be  the  flame 
For  which  he  had  agreed  his   perfume  to 

forego,  boys! 

No  lack  of  skill,  but  fates, 
Shall  make  us  yield  to  Gates, 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo,  boys! 
The  devils  may  have  leagued,  as  you  know, 

with  the  States. 
But  we  never  will  be  beat  by  any  mortal  foe, 

boys! 

Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo, 
Tullalo,  tullalo,  tullalo-o-o-o,  boys! 

The  American  army  was  stationed  along  the 
western  bank  of  the  Hudson;  while  Burgoyne's 
troops  were  encamped  along  the  eastern  bank. 
For  nearly  a  month  the  armies  remained  in  this 
position;  then  Burgoyne  determined  to  advance 
to  Albany,  and  on  September  13,  1777,  the  British 
army  crossed  on  a  pontoon  bridge  to  the  west 
bank  of  the  Hudson.  Two  desperate  attempts 
were  made  to  break  through  the  American  lines, 
but  the  British  were  routed  by  Benedict  Arnold's 
superb  and  daring  generalship,  and  forced  to  re 
treat  to  Saratoga. 


ARNOLD  AT  STILLWATER 

[October  7,  1777] 

AH,  you  mistake  me,  comrades,  to  think  that 

my  heart  is  steel ! 
Cased  in  a  cold  endurance,  nor  pleasure  nor 

pain  to  feel; 
Cold  as  I  am  in  my  manner,  yet  over  these 

cheeks  so  seared 
Teardrops  have  fallen  in  torrents,  thrice  since 

my  chin  grew  beard. 

Thrice  since  my  chin  was  bearded  I  suffered 

the  tears  to  fall; 
Benedict  Arnold,  the  traitor,  he  was  the  cause 

of  them  all! 
Once,  when  he  carried  Stillwater,  proud  of 

his  valor,  I  cried; 
Then,  with  my  rage  at  his  treason  —  with 

pity  when  Andre  died. 

Benedict  Arnold,  the  traitor,  sank  deep  in  the 

pit  of  shame, 
Bartered  for  vengeance  his  honor,  blackened 

for  profit  his  fame; 
Yet  never  a  gallanter  soldier,  whatever  his 

after  crime, 
Fought  on  the  red  field  of  honor  than  he  in  his 

early  time. 

Ah,  I  remember  Stillwater.  as  it  were  yester 
day! 

Then  first  I  shouldered  a  firelock,  and  set  out 
the  foemen  to  slay. 

The  country  was  up  all  around  us,  racing  and 
chasing  Burgoyne. 

And  I  had  gone  out  with  my  neighbors.  Gates 
and  his  forces  to  join. 

Marched  we  with  Poor  and  with  Learned, 

ready  and  eager  to  fight; 
There  stood  the  foemen  before  us,  cannon 

and  men  on  the  height; 
Onward  we  trod  with  no  shouting,  forbidden 

to  fire  till  the  word; 
As  silent  their  long  line  of  scarlet  —  not  one 

of  them  whispered  or  stirred. 

Suddenly,  then,  from  among  them  smoke  rose 

and  spread  on  the  breeze; 
Grapeshot  flew  over  us  sharply,  cutting  the 

limbs  from  the  trees; 


ARNOLD   AT   STILLWATER 


2OI 


But  onward  we  pressed  till  the  order  of  Cilley 

fell  full  on  the  ear; 
Then  we  levelled  our  pieces  and  fired  them, 

and  rushed  up  the  slope  with  a  cheer. 

Fiercely  we  charged  on  their  centre,  and  beat 

back  the  stout  grenadiers, 
And  wounded  the  brave  Major  Ackland,  and 

grappled  the  swart  cannoneers; 
Five  times  we  captured  their  cannons,  and 

five  times  they  took  them  again ; 
But  the  sixth  time  we  had  them  we  kept  them, 

and  with  them  a  share  of  their  men. 

Our  colonel  who  led  us  dismounted,  high  on 

a  cannon  he  sprang; 
Over  the  noise  of  our  shouting  clearly  his 

joyous  words  rang: 
"These  are  our  own  brazen  beauties!   Here 

to  America's  cause 
I  dedicate  each,  and  to  freedom !  —  foes  to 

King  George  and  his  laws!" 

Worn  as  we  were  with  the  struggle,  wounded 

and  bleeding  and  sore, 
Some  stood  all  pale  and  exhausted;    some 

lay  there  stiff  in  their  gore; 
And  round  through  the  mass  went  a  murmur, 

that  grew  to  a  whispering  clear, 
And    then    to    reproaches    outspoken — "If 

General  Arnold  were  here!" 

For  Gates,  in  his  folly  and  envy,  had  given 
the  chief  no  command. 

And  far  in  the  rear  some  had  seen  him  horse 
less  and  moodily  stand, 

Knitting  his  forehead  in  anger,  gnawing  his 
red  lip  in  pain, 

Fretting  himself  like  a  bloodhound  held  back 
from  his  prey  by  a  chain. 

Hark,  at  our  right  there  is  cheering!  there 
is  the  ruffle  of  drums! 

Here  is  the  well-known  brown  charger !  Spur 
ring  it  madly  he  comes! 

Learned's  brigade  have  espied  him,  rending 
the  air  with  a  cheer; 

Woe  to  the  terrified  foeman,  now  that  our 
leader  is  here! 

Piercing  the  tumult  behind  him,  Armstrong 
is  out  on  his  track; 

Gates  has  dispatched  his  lieutenant  to  sum 
mon  the  fugitive  back. 


Armstrong  might  summon  the  tempest,  order 

the  whirlwind  to  stay. 
Issue  commands  to  the  earthquake  —  would 

they  the  mandate  obey  ? 

Wounds,   they   were   healed   in   a   moment! 

weariness  instantly  gone! 
Forward  he  pointed  his  sabre  —  led  us,  not 

ordered  us  on. 
Down  on  the  Hessians  we  thundered,  he,  like 

a  madman  ahead; 
Vainly  they  strove  to  withstand  us;   raging, 

they  shivered  and  fled. 

On  to  their  earthworks  we  drove  them,  shaking 

with  ire  and  dismay; 
There  they  made  stand  with  a  purpose  to  beat 

back  the  tide  of  the  day. 
Onward  we  followed,  then  faltered;    deadly 

their  balls  whistled  free. 
Where  was  our  death-daring  leader  ?  Arnold, 

our  hope,  where  was  he? 

He?  He  was  everywhere  riding!  hither  and 
thither  his  form, 

On  the  brown  charger  careering,  showed  us 
the  path  of  the  storm; 

Over  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  over  the  mus 
ketry's  crash, 

Sounded  his  voice,  while  his  sabre  lit  up  the 
way  with  its  flash. 

Throwing  quick  glances  around  him,  reining 

a  moment  his  steed  — 
"Brooks,  that  redoubt!"  was  his  order;   "let 

the  rest  follow  my  lead! 
Mark    where    the   smoke-cloud    is    parting! 

see  where  the  gun-barrels  glance ! 
Livingston,   forward!    On,   Wesson,   charge 

them!  Let  Morgan  advance!" 

"Forward!"  he  shouted,  and,  spurring  on 

through  the  sally-port  then, 
Fell  sword  in  hand  on  the  Hessians,  closely 

behind  him  our  men. 
Back  shrank  the  foemen  in  terror;   off  went 

their  forces  pellmell. 
Firing  one  Parthian  volley;    struck  by  it, 

Arnold,  he  fell. 

Ours  was  the  day.  Up  we  raised  him ;  spurted 

the  blood  from  his  knee  — 
"Take  my  cravat,  boys,  and  bind  it;   I  am 

not  dead  yet,"  said  he. 


2O2 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"What!     did   you    follow   me,    Armstrong? 

Pray,  do  you  think  it  quite  right, 
Leaving  your  duties  out  yonder,  to  risk  your 

dear  self  in  the  fight  ?  " 

"General  Gates  sent  his  orders"  —  faltering 

the  aide-de-camp  spoke  — 
"You're  to  return,   lest  some  rashness — " 

Fiercely  the  speech  Arnold  broke: 
"Rashness!    Why,  yes,  tell  the  general  the 

rashness  he  dreaded  is  done! 
Tell  him  his  kinsfolk  are  beaten!    tell  him 

the  battle  is  won!" 

Oh,  that  a  soldier  so  glorious,  ever  victorious 

in  fight, 
Passed  from  a  daylight  of  honor  into  the 

terrible  night !  — 
Fell  as  the  mighty  archangel,  ere  the  earth 

glowed  in  space,  fell  — 
Fell  from  the  patriot's  heaven  down  to  the 

loyalist's  hell ! 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Burgoyne  was  hotly  pursued,  and  when  he 
reached  the  place  where  he  had  crossed  the  Hud 
son,  found  it  occupied  in  force  by  the  Americans. 
The  British  army,  in  short,  was  surrounded,  and, 
after  a  week's  indecision,  Burgoyne  sent  a  flag  of 
truce  to  Gates,  inquiring  what  terms  of  surrender 
would  be  accepted.  Three  days  were  spent  in  a 
discussion  of  terms,  and  on  October  17.  1777, 
Burgoyne  surrendered  to  the  American  forces. 

THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  BURGOYNE 

[October  17,  1777] 

WHEN  Jack  the  King's  commander 

Was  going  to  his  duty, 

Through  all  the  crowd  he  smiled  and  bowed 

To  every  blooming  beauty. 

The  city  rung  with  feats  he'd  done 

In  Portugal  and  Flanders, 

And  all  the  town  thought  he'd  be  crowned 

The  first  of  Alexanders. 

To  Hampton  Court  he  first  repairs 
To  kiss  great  George's  hand,  sirs; 
Then  to  harangue  on  state  affairs 
Before  he  left  the  land,  sirs. 

The  "Lower  House"  sat  mute  as  mouse 
To  hear  his  grand  oration; 
And  "all  the  peers,"  with  loudest  cheers, 
Proclaimed  him  to  the  nation. 


Then  off  he  went  to  Canada, 
Next  to  Ticonderoga, 
And  quitting  those  away  he  goes 
Straightway  to  Saratoga. 

With  great  parade  his  march  he  made 
To  gain  his  wished-for  station, 
While  far  and  wide  his  minions  hied 
To  spread  his  "Proclamation." 

To  such  as  stayed  he  offers  made 

Of  "pardon  on  submission; 

But  savage  bands  should  waste  the  lands 

Of  all  in  opposition." 

But  ah,  the  cruel  fates  of  war! 
This  boasted  son  of  Britain, 
When  mounting  his  triumphal  car, 
With  sudden  fear  was  smitten. 

The  sons  of  Freedom  gathered  round, 
His  hostile  bands  confounded, 
And  when  they  'd  fain  have  turned  their  back 
They  found  themselves  surrounded! 

In  vain  they  fought,  in  vain  they  fled; 
Their  chief,  humane  and  tender, 
To  save  the  rest  soon  thought  it  best 
His  forces  to  surrender. 

Brave  St.  Clair,  when  he  first  retired, 
Knew  what  the  fates  portended; 
And  Arnold  and  heroic  Gates 
His  conduct  have  defended. 

Thus  may  America's  brave  sons 
With  honor  be  rewarded, 
And  be  the  fate  of  all  her  foes 
The  same  as  here  recorded. 


SARATOGA  SONG 

[October  17,  1777] 

COME  unto  me,  ye  heroes 

Whose  hearts  are  true  and  bold, 
Who  value  more  your  honor 

Than  others  do  their  gold; 
Give  ear  unto  my  story, 

And  I  the  truth  will  tell, 
Concerning  many  a  soldier 

Who  for  his  country  fell. 

Burgoyne,  the  King's  commander, 
From  Canada  set  sail; 


SARATOGA  SONG 


203 


With  full  eight  thousand  regulars, 
He  thought  he  could  not  fail; 

With  Indians  and  Canadians, 
And  his  cursed  Tory  crew, 

On  board  his  fleet  of  shipping 
He  up  the  Champlain  flew. 

Before  Ticonderoga, 

The  first  day  of  July, 
Appeared  his  ships  and  army, 

And  we  did  them  espy. 
Their  motions  we  observed. 

Full  well  both  night  and  day, 
And  our  brave  boys  prepared 

To  have  a  bloody  fray. 

Our  garrison,  they  viewed  them, 

And  straight  their  troops  did  land; 
And  when  St.  Clair,  our  chieftain, 

The  fact  did  understand, 
That  they  the  Mount  Defiance 

Were  bent  to  fortify, 
He  found  we  must  surrender, 

Or  else  prepare  to  die. 

The  fifth  day  of  July,  then, 

He  ordered  a  retreat; 
And  when  next  morn  we  started, 

Burgoyne  thought  we  were  beat. 
And  closely  he  pursued  us, 

Till  when  near  Hubbardton, 
Our  rear  guards  were  defeated, 

He  thought  the  country  won. 

And  when  't  was  told  in  Congress 

That  we  our  forts  had  left, 
To  Albany  retreated, 

Of  all  the  North  bereft, 
Brave  General  Gates  they  sent  us, 

Our  fortunes  to  retrieve, 
And  him,  with  shouts  of  gladness, 

The  army  did  receive. 

Where  first  the  Mohawk's  waters 

Do  in  the  sunshine  play, 
For  Herkimer's  brave  soldiers 

Sellinger  ambushed  lay; 
And  them  he  there  defeated, 

But  soon  he  had  his  due. 
And  scared  by  Brooks  and  Arnold, 

He  to  the  north  withdrew. 

To  take  the  stores  and  cattle 
That  we  had  gathered  then, 

Burgoyne  sent  a  detachment 
Of  fifteen  hundred  men ; 


By  Baum  they  were  commanded, 
To  Bennington  they  went; 

To  plunder  and  to  murder 
Was  fully  their  intent. 

But  little  did  they  know  then 

With  whom  they  had  to  deal; 
It  was  not  quite  so  easy 

Our  stores  and  stocks  to  steal, 
Bold  Stark  would  give  them  only 

A  portion  of  his  lead; 
With  half  his  crew,  ere  sunset, 

Baum  lay  among  the  dead. 

The  nineteenth  of  September, 

The  morning  cool  and  clear, 
Brave  Gates  rode  through  our  army, 

Each  soldier's  heart  to  cheer; 
'Burgoyne,"  he  cried,  "advances, 

But  we  will  never  fly; 
No  —  rather  than  surrender, 

We'll  fight  him  till  we  die!" 

The  news  was  quickly  brought  us, 

The  enemy  was  near, 
And  all  along  our  lines  then, 

There  was  no  sign  of  fear; 
It  was  above  Stillwater 

We  met  at  noon  that  day, 
And  every  one  expected 

To  see  a  bloody  fray. 

Six  hours  the  battle  lasted, 

Each  heart  as  true  as  gold, 
The  British  fought  like  lions, 

And  we  like  Yankees  bold; 
The  leaves  with  blood  were  crimson, 

And  then  did  brave  Gates  cry, 
'  'T  is  diamond  now  cut  diamond ! 

We'll  beat  them,  boys,  or  die." 

The  darkness  soon  approaching, 

It  forced  us  to  retreat 
Into  our  lines  till  morning, 

WThich  made  them  think  us  beat; 
But  ere  the  sun  was  risen, 

They  saw  before  their  eyes 
Us  ready  to  engage  them, 

Wrhich  did  them  much  surprise. 

Of  fighting  they  seem  weary, 
Therefore  to  work  they  go 

Their  thousand  dead  to  bury, 
And  breastworks  up  to  throw; 

With  grape  and  bombs  intending 
Our  army  to  destroy, 


2O4 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Or  from  our  works  our  forces 
By  stratagem  decoy. 

The  seventh  day  of  October 

The  British  tried  again, 
Shells  from  their  cannon  throwing, 

Which  fell  on  us  like  rain; 
To  drive  us  from  our  stations, 

That  they  might  thus  retreat; 
For  now  Burgoyne  saw  plainly 

He  never  could  us  beat. 

But  vain  was  his  endeavor 

Our  men  to  terrify; 
Though  death  was  all  around  us. 

Not  one  of  us  would  fly. 
But  when  an  hour  we'd  fought  them, 

And  they  began  to  yield, 
Along  our  lines  the  cry  ran, 

"The  next  blow  wins  the  field!" 

Great  God  who  guides  their  battles 

Whose  cause  is  just  and  true, 
Inspired  our  bold  commander 

The  course  he  should  pursue! 
He  ordered  Arnold  forward, 

And  Brooks  to  follow  on; 
The  enemy  was  routed! 

Our  liberty  was  won! 

Then,  burning  all  their  luggage, 
They  fled  with  haste  and  fear, 


Burgoyne  with  all  his  forces, 

To  Saratoga  did  steer; 
And  Gates,  our  brave  commander, 

Soon  after  him  did  hie, 
Resolving  he  would  take  them, 

Or  in  the  effort  die. 

As  we  came  nigh  the  village, 

We  overtook  the  foe; 
They'd  burned  each  house  to  ashes, 

Like  all  where'er  they  go. 
The  seventeenth  of  October, 

They  did  capitulate, 
Burgoyne  and  his  proud  army 

Did  we  our  prisoners  make. 

Now  here's  a  health  to  Arnold, 

And  our  commander  Gates, 
To  Lincoln  and  to  Washington, 

Whom  every  Tory  hates; 
Likewise  unto  our  Congress, 

God  grant  it  long  to  reign; 
Our  Country,  Right,  and  Justice 

Forever  to  maintain. 

Now  finished  is  my  story, 

My  song  is  at  an  end; 
The  freedom  we're  enjoying 

We're  ready  to  defend; 
For  while  our  cause  is  righteous, 

Heaven  nerves  the  soldier's  arm, 
And  vain  is  their  endeavor 

Who  strive  to  do  us  harm. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE   SECOND    STAGE 


News  of  the  reverse  at  Saratoga  was  received 
in  England  with  amazement  and  consternation, 
and  its  effect  on  the  government  was  soon  dis 
cernible.  On  February  17,  1778,  Lord  North  as 
tonished  the  House  of  Commons  by  rising  in  his 
place  and  moving  that  Parliament  repeal  the  tea 
tax  and  other  measures  obnoxious  to  the  Ameri 
cans,  that  it  renounce  forever  the  right  of  raising 
a  revenue  in  America,  and  that  commissioners  be 
sent  to  Congress,  with  full  powers  for  negotiating 
a  peace.  So  complete  a  political  somersault  has 
seldom  been  turned  by  an  English  minister. 

LORD  NORTH'S  RECANTATION 

[February  17,  1778] 

WHEN  North  first  began 
With  his  taxation  plan, 
The  Colonies  all  to  supplant, 


To  Britain's  true  cause, 
And  her  liberty,  laws, 
Oh,  how  did  he  scorn  to  recant. 

Oh !   how  did  he  boast 
Of  his  pow'r  and  his  host, 

Alternately  swagger  and  cant; 
Of  freedom  so  dear. 
Not  a  word  would  he  hear, 

Nor  believe  he'd  be  forc'd  to  recant. 

That  freedom  he  swore 
They  ne'er  should  have  more, 

Their  money  to  give  and  to  grant; 
Whene'er  they  addressed, 
Wrhat  disdain  he  express'd, 

Not  thinking  they'd  make  him  recant. 


GENERAL   HOWE'S  LETTER 


205 


He  armies  sent  o'er 

To  America's  shore, 
New  government  there  to  transplant; 

But  every  campaign 

Prov'd  his  force  to  be  vain, 
Yet  still  he  refus'd  to  recant. 

But  with  all  their  bombast, 

They  were  so  beat  at  last, 
As  to  silence  his  impious  rant; 

Who  for  want  of  success. 

Could  at  last  do  no  less 
Than  draw  in  his  horns,  and  recant. 

With  his  brother  Burgoyne, 

He's  forc'd  now  to  join, 
And  a  treaty  of  peace  for  to  want; 

Says  he  ne'er  will  fight, 

But  will  give  up  his  right 
To  taxation,  and  freely  recant. 

With  the  great  General  Howe, 

He'd  be  very  glad  now, 
He  ne'er  had  engag'd  in  the  jaunt; 

And  ev'ry  proud  Scot 

In  the  devilish  plot, 
With  his  Lordship,  are  forc'd  to  recant. 

Old  England,  alas! 

They  have  brought  to  such  pass, 
Too  late  are  proposals  extant; 

America 's  lost. 

Our  glory  at  most 
Is  only  that  —  tyrants  recant. 

But  these  proposals  came  too  late.  America 
had  just  concluded  with  France  a  treaty  by  which 
she  agreed,  in  consideration  of  armed  support  to 
be  furnished  by  that  power,  never  to  entertain 
proposals  of  peace  from  Great  Britain  until  her 
independence  should  be  acknowledged.  On  March 
13  this  action  on  the  part  of  France  was  commu- 
aicated  to  the  British  government,  and  war  against 
France  was  instantly  declared . 

A  NEW  BALLAD 

[1778] 

ROUSE,  Britons!  at  length, 

And  put  forth  your  strength 
Perfidious  France  to  resist; 

Ten  Frenchmen  will  fly, 

To  shun  a  black  eye, 
If  an  Englishman  doubles  his  fist. 

Derry  down,  down,  hey  derry  down. 


But  if  they  feel  stout, 

Why  let  them  turn  out, 
With  their  maws  stuff'd  with  frogs,  soups, 
and  jellies, 

Brave  Hardy's  sea  thunder 

Shall  strike  them  with  wonder, 
And  make  the  frogs  leap  in  their  bellies.' 

For  their  Dons  and  their  ships 

We  care  not  three  skips 
Of  a  flea  —  and  their  threats  turn  into  jest,  O ! 

We'll  bang  their  bare  ribs 

For  the  infamous  fibs 
Cramm'd  into  their  fine  manifesto. 

Our  brethren  so  frantic 

Across  the  Atlantic, 
Who  quit  their  old  friends  iri  a  huff, 

In  spite  of  their  airs, 

Are  at  their  last  prayers, 
And  of  fighting  have  had  quantum  suff. 

Then  if  powers  at  a  distance 

Should  offer  assistance, 
Say  boldly,  "we  want  none,  we  thank  ye," 

Old  England  's  a  match 

And  more  for  old  scratch, 
A  Frenchman,  a  Spaniard,  a  Yankee! 

Derry  down,  down,  hey  derry  down. 


In  spite  of  this  change  in  the  complexion  of 
affairs  abroad,  the  situation  in  America  was  still 
critical.  Howe  had  abandoned  Burgoyne  to  his 
fate,  but  he  had  not  been  inactive.  He  had  set  his 
heart  upon  the  capture  of  Philadelphia,  and  in 
June,  1777,  assembled  his  army  at  New  Bruns 
wick,  but  finding  Washington  strongly  posted  on 
the  Heights  of  Middlebrook  and  not  daring  to 
attack  him,  was  forced  to  retire  to  New  York. 


GENERAL  HOWE'S  LETTER 

The  substance  of  Sir  W.'s  last  letter  from  New 
York,  versified. 

[June,  1777J 

As  to  kidnap  the  Congress  has  long  been  my 

aim, 

I  lately  resolv'd  to  accomplish  the  same; 
And,  that  none,  in  the  glory,  might  want  his 

due  share, 
All  the  troops  were  to  Brunswick  desir'd  to 

repair. 

Derry  down,  down,  hey  derry  down. 


206 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


There  I  met  them  in  person,  and  took  the 

command. 
When  I   instantly  told  them  the  job  upon 

hand; 

I  did  not  detain  them  with  long-winded  stuff, 
But  made  a  short  speech,  and  each  soldier 

look'd  bluff. 

With  this  omen  elated,  towards  Quibbletown 
I   led   them,   concluding   the   day   was   our 

own; 
For,  till  we  went  thither,  the  coast  was  quite 

clear,  — 
But  Putnam    and  Washington,  d — n  them, 

were  there! 

I  own  I  was  stagger'd,  to  see  with  what  skill 
The  rogues  were  intrenched,  on  the  brow  of 

the  hill; 
With  a  view  to  dismay  them,  I  show'd  my 

whole  force, 
But  they  kept  their  position,  and  car'd  not  a 

curse. 

There  were  then  but  two  ways,  —  to  retreat 

or  attack, 

And  to  me  it  seem'd  wisest,  by  far.  to  go  back ; 
For  I  thought,  if  I  rashly  got  into  a  fray, 
There  might  both  be  the  Devil  and  Piper  to 

pay- 

Then,  to  lose  no  more  time,  by  parading  in 
vain, 

I  determin'd  elsewhere  to  transfer  the  cam 
paign; 

So  just  as  we  went,  we  return'd  to  this  place, 

With  no  other  diff 'rence,  —  than  mending 
our  pace. 

Where  next  we  proceed,  is  not  yet  very  clear, 
But,  when  we  get  there,  be  assur'd  you  shall 

hear; 
I'll  settle  that  point,  when  I  meet  with  my 

brother,  — 
Meanwhile,  we're  embarking  for  some  place 

or  other. 

Having  briefly,  my  lord,  told  you,  —  how  the 

land  lies, 
I  hope  there 's  enough  —  for  a  word  to  the 

wise; 
Tis  a  good  horse,  they  say,  that  never  will 

stumble,  — 
But,    fighting   or   flying,  —  I  'm    your   very 

humble. 


Howe,  finding  the  approach  to  the  "rebel  capi 
tal  "  by  land  cut  off,  determined  to  reach  it  by 
water,  and  about  the  middle  of  July  put  to  sea 
with  a  fleet  of  two  hundred  and  twenty-eight  sail, 
carrying  an  army  of  eighteen  thousand  men.  Not 
until  the  25th  of  August  did  he  succeed  in  land 
ing  this  force  at  the  head  of  Chesapeake  Bay. 
Washington,  though  he  had  only  eleven  thousand 
men,  decided  to  offer  battle,  rather  than  let  Phila 
delphia  be  taken  without  a  blow,  and  on  Septem 
ber  11,  1777,  the  armies  met  at  Brandywine  Creek. 
The  Americans  were  forced  to  retire,  with  a  loss 
of  about  a  thousand  men,  and  the  British  entered 
Philadelphia  two  weeks  later. 


CARMEN  BELLICOSUM 

IN  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night-encampment,  bore  the 
banner  of  the  rampant 

Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer,  rolled 
the  roll  of  the  drummer, 
Through  the  morn ! 


Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires: 
As  the  roar 
Of  the  shore, 

Swept   the   strong   battle-breakers   o'er   the 
green-sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain; 

And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black 
gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain! 


Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers ; 

And  the  "villainous  saltpetre" 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 


VALLEY  FORGE 


207 


With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse- 
guards'  clangor 

On  our  flanks: 

Then  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old- 
fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  bareheaded  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 

And  his  broadsword  was  swinging 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet-loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch 
of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath; 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder,  roared  the 
iron  six-pounder, 
Hurling  Death. 
GUY  HUMPHREYS  MCMASTER. 

Washington  retired  to  winter  quarters  at  Val 
ley  Forge,  where,  through  the  neglect  and  mis 
management  of  Congress,  the  patriot  army  was 
so  ill-provided  with  food,  clothing,  and  shelter, 
and  endured  sufferings  so  intense  that,  from  dis 
ease  and  desertion,  it  dwindled  at  times  to  less 
than  two  thousand  effective  men. 

VALLEY  FORGE 

From  "The  Wagoner  of  the  Alleghanies  " 
[1777-78] 

O'ER  town  and  cottage,  vale  and  height, 
Down  came  the  Winter,  fierce  and  white, 
And  shuddering  wildly,  as  distraught 
At  horrors  his  own  hand  had  wrought. 

His  child,  the  young  Year,  newly  born, 

Cheerless,  cowering,  and  affrighted, 
Wailed  with  a  shivering  voice  forlorn, 

As  on  a  frozen  heath  benighted. 
In  vain  the  hearths  were  set  aglow, 

In  vain  the  evening  lamps  were  lighted. 
To  cheer  the  dreary  realm  of  snow: 
Old  Winter's  brow  would  not  be  smoothed, 
Nor  the  young  Year's  wailing  soothed. 

How  sad  the  wretch  at  morn  or  eve 
Compelled  his  starving  home  to  leave, 
Who,  plunged  breast-deep  from  drift  to  drift, 
Toils  slowly  on  from  rift  to  rift, 


Still  hearing  in  his  aching  ear 
The  cry  his  fancy  whispers  near, 
Of  little  ones  who  weep  for  bread 
Within  an  ill-provided  shed! 

But  wilder,  fiercer,  sadder  still, 

Freezing  the  tear  it  caused  to  start, 
Was  the  inevitable  chill 

Which  pierced  a  nation's  agued  heart,  — - 
A  nation  with  its  naked  breast 
Against  the  frozen  barriers  prest, 
Heaving  its  tedious  way  and  slow 
Through  shifting  gulfs  and  drifts  of  woe, 
Where  every  blast  that  whistled  by 
Was  bitter  with  its  children's  cry. 

Such  was  the  winter's  awful  sight 
For  many  a  dreary  day  and  night, 
What  time  our  country's  hope  forlorn, 
Of  every  needed  comfort  shorn, 
Lay  housed  within  a  hurried  tent, 
Where  every  keen  blast  found  a  rent, 
And  oft  the  snow  was  seen  to  sift 
Along  the  floor  its  piling  drift, 
Or,  mocking  the  scant  blankets'  fold, 
Across  the  night-couch  frequent  rolled; 
Where  every  path  by  a  soldier  beat, 

Or  every  track  where  a  sentinel  stood, 
Still  held  the  print  of  naked  feet, 

And  oft  the  crimson  stains  of  blood; 
Where  Famine  held  her  spectral  court, 

And  joined  by  all  her  fierce  allies: 
She  ever  loved  a  camp  or  fort 

Beleaguered  by  the  wintry  skies,  — 
But  chiefly  when  Disease  is  by, 
To  sink  the  frame  and  dim  the  eye, 
Until,  with  seeking  forehead  bent, 

In  martial  garments  cold  and  damp, 
Pale  Death  patrols  from  tent  to  tent, 

To  count  the  charnels  of  the  camp. 

Such  was  the  winter  that  prevailed 
Within  the  crowded,  frozen  gorge; 

Such  were  the  horrors  that  assailed 
The  patriot  band  at  Valley  Forge. 

It  was  a  midnight  storm  of  woes 

To  clear  the  sky  for  Freedom's  morn; 

And  such  must  ever  be  the  throes 
The  hour  when  Liberty  is  born. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

Howe's  army,  meanwhile,  spent  the  winter  in 
Philadelphia;  very  pleasantly,  for  the  most  part, 
and  yet  not  without  various  alarms,  one  of  which 


208 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


was  celebrated  by  Francis  Hopkinson  in  some  fa 
mous  verses  to  the  tune  of  ••  Yankee  Doodle,"  pub 
lished  in  the  Pennsylvania  Packet,  March  4,  1778. 

BRITISH  VALOR  DISPLAYED; 

OR,  THE   BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS 
[January  5,  1778] 

GALLANTS  attend,  and  hear  a  friend 

Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty; 
Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  befel 

In  Philadelphia  city. 

'T  was  early  day,  as  Poets  say, 

Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood, 

And  saw  a  sight  surprising. 

As  in  a  maze  he  stood  to  gaze 
(The  truth  can't  be  deny'd,  Sir), 

He  spy'd  a  score  of  kegs,  or  more, 
Come  floating  down  the  tide,  Sir. 

A  sailor,  too,  in  jerkin  blue, 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 

First  damn'd  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise, 
Then  said  "Some  mischief's  brewing: 

"  These  kegs  now  hold,  the  rebels  bold. 
Packed  up  like  pickl'd  herring; 

And  they're  come  down  t'  attack  the  town 
In  this  new  way  of  ferry'ng." 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 
And,  scar'd  almost  to  death.  Sir, 

Wore  out  their  shoes  to  spread  the  news, 
And  ran  'til  out  of  breath,  Sir. 

Now  up  and  down,  throughout  the  town 
Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted ; 

And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 
Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cry'd,  which  some  deny'd, 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked; 

And  girls  and  boys,  with  hideous  noise, 
Ran  thro'  the  streets  half  naked. 

Sir  William  he,  snug  as  a  flea, 

Lay  all  this  time  a  snoring; 
Nor  dream'd  of  harm  as  he  lay  warm 

In  bed  with  Mrs.  Loring. 

Now  in  a  fright,  he  starts  upright, 
Awaked  by  such  a  clatter; 


He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 
"For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter?" 

At  his  bedside  he  then  espy'd, 

Sir  Erskine  at  command,  Sir; 
Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot, 

And  t'  other  in  his  hand,  Sir. 

"  Arise,  arise,"  Sir  Erskine  cries, 
"  The  rebels  —  more's  the  pity  — 

Without  a  boat,  are  all  afloat, 
And  rang'd  before  the  city. 

"  The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide.  Sir, 

Pack'd  up  in  bags,  and  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  Sir. 

"Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war; 

These  kegs  must  all  be  routed; 
Or  surely  we  dispis'd  shall  be. 

And  British  valor  doubted." 

The  royal  band  now  ready  stand, 

All  ranged  in  dread  array,  Sir, 
On  every  slip,  on  every  ship, 

For  to  begin  the  fray,  Sir. 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore: 
The  small-arms  loud  did  rattle; 

Since  wars  began  I'm  sure  no  man 
E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales, 

With  rebel  trees  surrounded, 
The  distant  woods,  the  hills  and  floods, 

With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 

The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 

Attack 'd  from  every  quarter; 
Why,  sure  (thought  they),  the  De'il's  to  pay 

'Mong  folks  above  the  water. 

The  kegs,  't  is  said,  though  strongly  made 

Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  Sir, 
Could  not  oppose  their  pow'rful  foes, 

The  conq'ering  British  troops,  Sir. 

From  morn  to  night  these  men  of  might 

Display 'd  amazing  courage; 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down, 

Retired  to  sup  their  porridge. 

A  hundred  men,  with  each  a  pen, 
Or  more,  upon  my  word,  Sir, 


THE  LITTLE   BLACK-EYED   REBEL 


209 


It  is  most  true,  would  be  too  few, 
Their  valor  to  record,  Sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day 
Against  these  wicked  kegs,  Sir, 

That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 
They'll  make  their  boasts  and  brags,  Sir. 
FRANCIS  HOPKINSON. 


Another  pleasant  story  of  the  same  period, 
which  also  has  its  foundation  in  fact,  is  told  by 
Mr.  Carleton  in  "The  Little  Black-Eyed  Rebel." 
The  heroine's  name  was  Mary  Redmond,  and  she 
succeeded  more  than  once  in  helping  to  smuggle 
through  letters  from  soldiers  in  the  Continental 
army  to  their  wives  in  Philadelphia. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL1 

A  BOY  drove  into  the  city,  his  wagon  loaded 
down 

With  food  to  feed  the  people  of  the  British- 
governed  town; 

And  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  so  innocent 
and  sly, 

Was  watching  for  his  coming  from  the  corner 
of  her  eye. 

His  face  looked  broad  and  honest,  his  hands 

were  brown  and  tough, 
The  clothes  he  wore  upon  him  were  homespun, 

coarse,  and  rough; 
But  one  there  was  who  watched  him,  who 

long  time  lingered  nigh, 
And  cast  at  him  sweet  glances  from  the  corner 

of  her  eye. 

He  drove  up  to  the  market,  he  waited  in  the 

line; 
His  apples  and  potatoes  were  fresh  and  fair 

and  fine; 
But  long  and  long  he  waited,  and  no  one  came 

to  buy, 
Save  the  black-eyed  rebel,  watching  from  the 

corner  of  her  eye. 

"Now  who  will  buy  my  apples?"  he  shouted 

long  and  loud; 
And  "  Who  wants  my  potatoes  ?"  he  repeated 

to  the  crowd; 

1  From  Poems  for  Young  Americans,  published 
by  Harper  &  Bros. 


But  from  all  the  people  round  him  came  no 

word  of  a  reply, 
Save  the  black-eyed  rebel,  answering  from 

the  corner  of  her  eye. 

For  she  knew  that  'neath  the  lining  of  the 

coat  he  wore  that  day, 
Were  long  letters  from  the  husbands  and  the 

fathers  far  away, 
Who  were  fighting  for  the  freedom  that  they 

meant  to  gain  or  die; 
And  a  tear  like  silver  glistened  in  the  corner 

of  her  eye. 

But  the  treasures  —  how  to  get  them  ?  crept 

the  question  through  her  mind, 
Since  keen  enemies  were  watching  for  what 

prizes  they  might  find: 
And  she  paused  awhile  and  pondered,  with 

a  pretty  little  sigh; 
Then  resolve  crept  through  her  features,  and  a 

shrewdness  fired  her  eye. 

So  she  resolutely   walked  up  to  the  wagon 

old  and  red; 
"May  I  have  a  dozen  apples  for  a  kiss?"  she 

sweetly  said: 
And  the  brown  face  flushed  to  scarlet;  for 

the  boy  was  somewhat  shy, 
And  he  saw  her  laughing  at  him  from  the 

corner  of  her  eye. 

"You  may  have  them  all  for  nothing,  and 

more,  if  you  want,"  quoth  he. 
"I  will  have  them,  my  good  fellow,  but  can 

pay  for  them,"  said  she; 
And  she  clambered  on  the  wagon,  minding  not 

who  all  were  by, 
With  a  laugh  of  reckless  romping  in  the  corner 

of  her  eye. 

Clinging  round  his  brawny  neck,  she  cksped 

her  fingers  white  and  small, 
And  then  whispered,   "Quick!  the  letters! 

thrust  them  underneath  my  shawl! 
Carry  back  again  this  package,  and  be  sure 

that  you  are  spry!" 
And  she  sweetly  smiled  upon  him  from  the 

corner  of  her  eye. 

Loud  the  motley  crowd  were  laughing  at  the 

strange,  ungirlish  freak, 
And  the  boy  was  scared  and  panting,  and  so 

dashed  he  could  not  speak; 


210 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And,  "Miss,  7  have  good  apples,"  a  bolder 

lad  did  cry; 
But  she  answered,  "No,  I  thank  you,"  from 

the  corner  of  her  eye. 

With  the  news  of   loved  ones  absent  to  the 

dear  friends  they  would  greet, 
Searching   them    who    hungered    for    them, 

swift  she  glided  through  the  street, 
"  There  is  nothing  worth  the  doing  that  it  does 

not  pay  to  try," 
Thought  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  with  a 

twinkle  in  her  eye. 

WILL  CARLETON. 


Early  in  May,  Sir  Henry  Clinton  succeeded 
Howe  in  command  of  the  British  forces,  and  on 
June  18,  1778,  evacuated  Philadelphia,  and 
started,  with  his  whole  army,  for  New  York. 
Washington  started  in  pursuit,  and  on  Sunday, 
June  28,  ordered  General  Charles  Lee,  in  com 
mand  of  the  advance  guard,  to  fall  upon  the  Brit 
ish  left  wing  near  Monmouth  Court-House.  In 
stead  of  pressing  forward,  Lee  ordered  his  men  to 
retire,  and  they  began  to  fall  into  disorder.  At 
that  moment,  Washington,  summoned  by  Lafay 
ette,  galloped  up,  white  with  rage,  ordered  Lee  to 
the  rear,  re-formed  the  troops,  and  drove  the  Brit 
ish  back.  Night  put  an  end  to  the  conflict,  and 
Clinton  managed  to  get  away  under  cover  of  the 
darkness,  leaving  his  wounded  behind. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MONMOUTH 

[June  28,  1778] 

WHILST  in  peaceful  quarters  lying 

We  indulge  the  glass  till  late, 
Far  remote  the  thought  of  dying, 

Hear,  my  friends,  the  soldier's  fate: 
From  the  summer's  sun  hot  beaming, 

Where  yon  dust  e'en  clouds  the  skies. 
To  the  plains  where  heroes  bleeding, 
Shouts  and  dying  groans  arise. 

Halt!  halt!  halt!  form  every  rank  here; 

Mark  yon  dust  that  climbs  the  sky, 
To  the  front  close  up  the  long  rear, 

See!  the  enemy  is  nigh; 
Platoons  march  at  proper  distance, 

Cover  close  each  rank  and  file, 
They  will  make  a  bold  resistance. 
Here,  my  lads,  is  gallant  toil. 

Now  all  you  from  downy  slumber 
Roused  to  the  soft  joys  of  love, 

Waked  to  pleasures  without  number, 
Peace  and  ease  your  bosoms  prove: 


Round  us  roars  Bellona's  thunder, 

Ah !  how  close  the  iron  storm, 
O'er  the  field  wild  stalks  pale  wonder, 
Pass  the  word  there,  form,  lads,  form. 
To  the  left  display  that  column, 

Front,  halt,  dress,  be  bold  and  brave; 
Mark  in  air  yon  fiery  volume, 

Who'd  refuse  a  glorious  grave; 
Ope  your  boxes,  quick,  be  ready, 

See!  our  light-bobs  gain  the  hill; 
Courage,  boys,  be  firm  and  steady, 
Hence  each  care,  each  fear  lie  still. 

Now  the  dismal  cannon  roaring 
Speaks  loud  terror  to  the  soul, 
Grape   shot  wing'd  with  death    fast   pour 
ing, 

Ether  rings  from  pole  to  pole; 
See,  the  smoke,  how  black  and  dreary, 

Clouds  sulphureous  hide  the  sky, 
W'ounded,  bloody,  fainting,  weary, 
How  their  groans  ascend  on  high ! 

Firm,  my  lads;  who  breaks  the  line  thus  ? 

Oh !  can  brave  men  ever  yield, 
Glorious  danger  now  combines  us, 
None  but  cowards  quit  the  field. 
To  the  rear  each  gun  dismounted; 

Close  the  breach,  and  brisk  advance. 
All  your  former  acts  recounted 
This  day's  merit  shall  enhance. 

Now  half-choked  with  dust  and  powder, 

Fiercely  throbs  each  bursting  vein: 
Hark !  the  din  of  arms  grows  louder, 

Ah !  what  heaps  of  heroes  slain ! 
See,  from  flank  to  flank  wide  flashing, 

How  each  volley  rends  the  gloom; 
Hear  the  trumpet;  ah!  what  clashing, 
Man  and  horse  now  meet  their  doom; 
Bravely  done!  each  gallant  soldier 

Well  sustained  this  heavy  fire; 
Alexander  ne'er  was  bolder; 
Now  by  regiments  retire. 
See,  our  second  line  moves  on  us, 

Ope  your  columns,  give  them  way, 
Heaven  perhaps  may  smile  upon  us, 
These  may  yet  regain  the  day. 

Now  our  second  line  engaging, 

Charging  close,  spreads  carnage  round, 

Fierce  revenge  and  fury  raging, 
Angry  heroes  bite  the  ground. 

The  souls  of  brave  men  here  expiring 
Call  for  vengeance  e'en  in  death, 


THE   BATTLE   OF  MONMOUTH 


211 


Frowning  still,  the  dead,  the  dying, 
Threaten  with  their  latest  breath. 
To  the  left  obliquely  flying, 

Oh !  be  ready,  level  well, 
Who  could  think  of  e'er  retiring. 

See,  my  lads,  those  volleys  tell. 
Ah!  by  heavens,  our  dragoons  flying, 

How  the  squadrons  fill  the  plain ! 
Check  them,  boys,  ye  fear  not  dying, 

Sell  your  lives,  nor  fall  in  vain. 

Now  our  left  flank  they  are  turning; 

Carnage  is  but  just  begun; 
Desperate  now,  't  is  useless  mourning, 

Farewell,  friends,  adieu  the  sun! 
Fix'd  to  die,  we  scorn  retreating, 

To  the  shock  our  breasts  oppose, 
Hark!  the  shout,  the  signal  beating, 
See,  with  bayonets  they  close: 

Front  rank  charge !  the  rear  make  ready ! 

Forward,  march  —  reserve  your  fire ! 
Now  present,  fire  brisk,  be  steady, 

March,  march,  see  their  lines  retire! 
On  the  left,  our  light  troops  dashing, 
Now  our  dragoons  charge  the  rear, 
Shout!  huzza!  what  glorious  slashing, 
They  run,  they  run,  hence  banish  fear! 

Now  the  toil  and  danger  's  over, 

Dress  alike  the  wounded  brave, 
Hope  again  inspires  the  lover, 

Old  and  young  forget  the  grave; 
Seize  the  canteen,  poise  it  higher, 

Rest  to  each  brave  soul  that  fell! 
Death  for  this  is  ne'er  the  nigher, 

Welcome  mirth,  and  fear  farewell. 

R.  H. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MONMOUTH 

[June  28,  1778] 

FOUR-AND-EIGHTY  years  are  o'er  me;  great 
grandchildren  sit  before  me; 
These  my  locks  are  white  and  scanty,  and 

my  limbs  are  weak  and  worn; 
Yet  I  've  been  where  cannon  roaring,  firelocks 

rattling,  blood  outpouring. 
Stirred  the  souls  of  patriot  soldiers,  on  the 

tide  of  battle  borne; 
Where  they  told  me  I  was  bolder  far  than 

many  a  comrade  older, 
Though  a  stripling  at  that  fight  for  the 
right. 


All  that  sultry  day  in  summer  beat  his  sullen 

march  the  drummer, 
Where  the  Briton  strode  the  dusty  road 

until  the  sun  went  down; 
Then  on  Monmouth  plain  encamping,  tired 

and  footsore  with  the  tramping, 
Lay  all  wearily  and  drearily  the  forces  of 

the  crown, 
With  their  resting  horses  neighing  and  their 

evening  bugles  playing, 
And  their  sentries  pacing  slow  to  and  fro. 

Ere  the  day  to  night  had  shifted,  camp  was 

broken,  knapsacks  lifted, 
And  in  motion  was  the  vanguard  of  our 

swift-retreating  foes; 
Grim   Knyphausen   rode  before  his  brutal 

Hessians,  bloody  Tories  — 
They  were  fit  companions,  truly,  hirelings 

these  and  traitors  those  — 
While  the  careless  jest  and  laughter  of  the 

teamsters  coming  after 
Rang  around  each  creaking  wain  of  the 
train. 

'T  was  a  quiet  Sabbath  morning;  nature  gave 

no  sign  of  warning 
Of  the  struggle  that  would  follow  when  we 

met  the  Briton's  might; 
Of  the  horsemen  fiercely  spurring,  of  the  bul 
lets  shrilly  whirring, 
Of  the  bayonets  brightly  gleaming  through 

the  smoke  that  wrapped  the  fight; 
Of    the    cannon    thunder-pealing,    and    the 

wounded  wretches  reeling, 
And  the  corses  gory  red  of  the  dead. 

Quiet    nature  had    no  prescience;    but  the 

Tories  and  the  Hessians 
Heard  the  baying  of  the  bugles  that  were 

hanging  on  their  track ; 
Heard  the  cries  of  eager  ravens  soaring  high 

above  the  cravens; 
And  they  hurried,  worn  and  worried,  casting 

startled  glances  back, 
Leaving  Clinton  there  to  meet  us,  with  his 

bull-dogs  fierce  to  greet  us, 
With  the  veterans  of  the  crown,  scarred 
and  brown. 

For  the  fight  our  souls  were  eager,  and  each 

Continental  leaguer, 

A.S  he  gripped  his  firelock  firmly,  scarce 
could  wait  the  word  to  fire; 


212 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


For  his  country  rose  such  fervor,  in  his  heart 

of  hearts,  to  serve  her, 
That  it  gladdened  him  and  maddened  him 

and  kindled  raging  ire. 
Never  panther  from  his  fastness,  through  the 

forest's  gloomy  vastness, 
Coursed  more  grimly  night  and  day  for 
his  prey. 

I  was  in  the  main  force  posted ;  Lee,  of  whom 

his  minions  boasted, 
Was  commander  of  the  vanguard,  and  with 

him  were  Scott  and  Wayne. 
What  they  did  I  know  not,  cared  not ;  in  their 

march  of  shame  I  shared  not; 
But  it  startled  me  to  see  them  panic-stricken 

back  again, 
At  the  black  morass's  border,  all  in  headlong, 

fierce  disorder. 

With   the  Briton   plying   steel  at  their 
heel. 

Outward  cool  when  combat  waging,  howso 
ever  inward  raging, 
Ne'er  had  Washington  shown  feeling  when 

his  forces  fled  the  foe; 
But   to-day   his   forehead   lowered,   and  we 

shrank  his  wrath  untoward, 
As  on  Lee  his  bitter  speech  was  hurled  in 

hissing  tones  and  low: 
"Sir,  what  means  this  wild  confusion?   Is  it 

cowardice  or  collusion  ? 
Is  it  treachery  or  fear  brings  you  here  ?" 

Lee  grew  crimson  in  his  anger  —  rang  his 

curses  o'er  the  clangor, 
O'er  the  roaring  din  of  battle,  as  he  wrath- 

fully  replied; 
But  his  raging  was  unheeded;  fastly  on  our 

chieftain  speeded, 
Rallied  quick  the  fleeing  forces,  stayed  the 

dark,  retreating  tide; 
Then,  on  foaming  steed  returning,  said  to  Lee, 

with  wrath  still  burning, 
"Will  you  now  strike  a  blow  at  the 
foe?" 

At  the  words  Lee  drew  up  proudly,  curled  his 

lip  and  answered  loudly; 
"Ay!"  his  voice  rang  out,  "and  will  not  be 

the  first  to  leave  the  field;" 
^nd  his  word  redeeming  fairly,  with  a  skill 

surpassed  but  rarely, 

Struck  the  Briton  with  such  ardor  that  the 
scarlet  column  reeled; 


Then,  again,  but  in  good  order,  past  the  black 

morass's  border, 

Brought  his  forces  rent  and  torn,  spent 
and  worn. 

As  we  turned   on  flanks  and  centre,  in  the 

path  of  death  to  enter, 
One  of  Knox's  brass  six-pounders  lost  its 

Irish  cannoneer; 
And  his  wife  who,  'mid  the  slaughter,  had 

been  bearing  pails  of  water 
For  the  gun  and  for  the  gunner,  o'er  his 

body  shed  no  tear. 
"Move  the  piece!"  —  but  there  they  found 

her  loading,  firing  that  six-pounder, 
And  shegayly,  till  we  won,  worked  the  gun. 

Loud  we  cheered  as  Captain  Molly  waved 

the  rammer;  then  a  volley 
Pouring  in  upon  the  grenadiers,  we  sternly 

drove  them  back; 
Though  like  tigers  fierce  they  fought  us,  to 

such  zeal  had  Molly  brought  us 
That,  though  struck  with  heat,  and  thirst 
ing,  yet  of  drink  we  felt  no  lack: 
There   she   stood   amid   the  clamor,   busily 

handling  sponge  and  rammer. 
While  we  swept  with  wrath  condign  on 
their  line. 

From  our  centre  backward  driven,  with  his 

forces  rent  and  riven, 
Soon  the  foe  re-formed  in  order,  dressed 

again  his  shattered  ranks; 
In  a  column  firm  advancing,  from  his  bayo 
nets  hot  rays  glancing 
Showed  in  waving  lines  of  brilliance  as  he 

fell  upon  our  flanks. 
Charging  bravely  for  his  master:  thus  he  met 

renewed  disaster 

From  the  stronghold  that  we  held  back 
repelled. 

Monckton.  gallant,  cool,  and  fearless,  'mid 

his  bravest  comrades  peerless, 
Brought  his  grenadiers  to  action  but  to  fall 

amid  the  slain; 

Everywhere  their  ruin  found  them;  red  de 
struction  rained  around  them 
From  the  mouth  of  Oswald's  cannon,  from 

the  musketry  of  Wayne; 
While  our  sturdy  Continentals,  in  their  dusty 

regimentals, 

Drove  their  plumed  and  scarlet  force, 
man  and  horse. 


MOLLY  PITCHER 


213 


Beamed  the  sunlight  fierce  and  torrid  o'er 

the  raging  battle  horrid, 
Till,    in    faint   exhaustion   sinking,   death 

was  looked  on  as  a  boon; 
Heat,  and  not  a  drop  of  water  —  heat,  that 

won  the  race  of  slaughter. 
Fewer  far  with  bullets  dying  than  beneath 

the  sun  of  June; 
Only  ceased  the  terrible  firing,  with  the  Briton 

slow  retiring, 
As  the  sunbeams  in  the  West  sank  to  rest. 

On  our  arms  so  heavily  sleeping,  careless 

watch  our  sentries  keeping. 
Ready  to  renew  the  contest  when  the  dawn 
ing  day  should  show; 
Worn  with  toil  and  heat,  in  slumber  soon 

were  wrapt  our  greatest  number, 
Seeking  strength  to  rise  again  and  fall  upon 

the  wearied  foe; 
For  we  felt  his  power  was  broken !  but  what 

rage  was  ours  outspoken 
When,  on  waking  at  the  dawn,  he  had 
gone. 

In  the  midnight  still  and  sombre,  while  our 

force  was  wrapt  in  slumber, 
Clinton  set  his  train  in  motion,  sweeping 

fast  to  Sandy  Hook; 
Safely  from  our  blows  he  bore  his  mingled 

Britons,  Hessians,  Tories  — 
Bore  away  his  wounded  soldiers,  but  his 

useless  dead  forsook; 
Fleeing  from  a  worse  undoing,  and  too  far 

for  our  pursuing: 
So  we  found  the  field  our  own,  and  alone. 

How  that  stirring  day  comes  o'er  me!  How 

those  scenes  arise  before  me ! 
How  I  feel  a  youthful  vigor  for  a  moment 

fill  my  frame! 
Those  who  fought  beside  me  seeing,  from  the 

dim  past  brought  to  being, 
By  their  hands  I  fain  would  clasp  them  — 

ah!  each  lives  but  in  a  name; 
But  the  freedom  that  they  fought  for,  and 

the  country  grand  they  wrought  for, 
Is  their  monument  to-day,  and  for  aye. 
THOMAS  DUNN»  ENGLISH. 


The  most  famous  incident  of  the  fight,  next  to 
Washington's  encounter  with  Lee,  is  the  exploit 
of  a  camp  follower  named  Molly  Pitcher  or  Molly 
McGuire.  She  was  a  sturdy,  red-haired,  freckle- 
faced  Irishwoman,  and  during  the  battle  was  en 


gaged  in  carrying  water  to  her  husband,  who  was  a 
cannoneer.  A  bullet  killed  him  at  his  post  and 
Molly,  seizing  his  rammer  as  it  fell,  sprang  to  take 
his  place.  She  served  the  gun  with  skill  and  cour 
age,  and  on  the  following  morning,  covered  with 
dirt  and  blood,  she  was  presented  by  General 
Greene  to  Washington,  who  conferred  upon  her  a 
sergeant  s  commission. 


MOLLY  PITCHER 

[June  28,  1778] 

'T  WAS  hurry  and  scurry  at  Monmouth  town, 
For  Lee  was  beating  a  wild  retreat; 

The  British  were  riding  the  Yankees  down, 
And  panic  was  pressing  on  flying  feet. 

Galloping  down  like  a  hurricane 

Washington  rode  with  his  sword  swung 

high, 
Mighty  as  he  of  the  Trojan  plain 

Fired  by  a  courage  from  the  sky. 

"Halt,  and  stand  to  your  guns!"  he  cried. 

And  a  bombardier  made  swift  reply. 
Wheeling  his  cannon  into  the  tide, 

He  fell  'neath  the  shot  of  a  foeman  nigh. 

Molly  Pitcher  sprang  to  his  side. 
Fired  as  she  saw  her  husband  do. 

Telling  the  king  in  his  stubborn  pride 
Women  like  men  to  their  homes  are  true. 

Washington  rode  from  the  bloody  fray 
Up  to  the  gun  that  a  woman  manned. 

"Molly  Pitcher,  you  saved  the  day," 
He  said,  as  he  gave  her  a  hero's  hand. 

He  named  her  sergeant  with  manly  praise, 
While  her  war-brown  face  was  wet  with 

tears  — 

A  woman  has  ever  a  woman's  ways, 
And  the  army  was  wild  with  cheers. 

KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 


MOLLY  PITCHER 

ALL  day  the  great  guns  barked  and  roared ; 
All  day  the  big  balls  screeched  and  soared; 
All  day,  'mid  the  sweating  gunners  grim, 
Who  toiled  in  their  smoke-shroud  dense  and 

dim. 

Sweet  Molly  labored  with  courage  high, 
With  steady  hand  and  watchful  eye, 


214 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Till  the  day  was  ours,  and  the  sinking  sun 
Looked  down  on  the  field  of  Monmouth  won, 
And  Molly  standing  beside  her  gun. 

Now,  Molly,  rest  your  weary  arm ! 
Safe,  Molly,  all  is  safe  from  harm. 
Now,  woman,  bow  your  aching  head, 
And  weep  in  sorrow  o'er  your  dead ! 

Next  day  on  that  field  so  hardly  won, 

Stately  and  calm  stands  Washington, 

And  looks  where  our  gallant  Greene  doth 

lead 

A  figure  clad  in  motley  weed  — 
A  soldier's  cap  and  a  soldier's  coat 
Masking  a  woman's  petticoat. 
He  greets  our  Molly  in  kindly  wise; 
He  bids  her  raise  her  tearful  eyes; 
And  now  he  hails  her  before  them  all 
Comrade  and  soldier,  whate'er  befall, 
"And  since  she  has  played  a  man's  full  part, 
A  man's  reward  for  her  loyal  heart! 
And  Sergeant  Molly  Pitcher's  name 
Be  writ  henceforth  on  the  shield  of  fame!" 

Oh,  Molly,  with  your  eyes  so  blue! 
Oh,  Molly,  Molly,  here's  to  you! 
Sweet  honor's  roll  will  aye  be  richer 
To  hold  the  name  of  Molly  Pitcher. 

LAURA  E.  RICHARDS. 


About  the  middle  of  July,  a  strong  French  fleet, 
commanded  by  Count  d'Estaing,  arrived  off  Sandy 
Hook,  bringing  with  it  M.  Ge'rard,  the  first  minister 
from  France  to  the  United  States.  It  was  found 
that  the  ships  could  not  pass  the  bar  at  the  mouth 
of  New  York  harbor,  and  it  was  decided  to  at 
tempt  the  capture  of  the  British  force  which  held 
Newport,  R.  I.,  but  the  expedition  proved  a  failure, 
and  the  French  sailed  away  to  Boston  to  refit. , 


YANKEE     DOODLE'S     EXPEDITION 
TO  RHODE  ISLAND 

[August,  1778) 

FROM  Lewis,  Monsieur  Gerard  came, 
To  Congress  in  this  town,  sir, 

They  bow'd  to  him,  and  he  to  them, 
And  then  they  all  sat  down,  sir. 

Begar,  said  Monsieur,  one  grand  coup 
You  shall  bientot  behold,  sir; 

This  was  believ'd  as  gospel  true, 
And  Jonathan  felt  bold,  sir. 


So  Yankee  Doodle  did  forget 
The  sound  of  British  drum,  sir, 

How  oft  it  made  him  quake  and  sweat, 
In  spite  of  Yankee  rum,  sir. 

He  took  his  wallet  on  his  back, 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder, 
And  veow'd  Rhode  Island  to  attack 

Before  he  was  much  older. 

In  dread  array  their  tatter'd  crew 
Advanc'd  with  colors  spread,  sir, 

Their  fifes  played  Yankee  doodle,  doo, 
King  Hancock  at  their  head,  sir. 

What  numbers  bravely  cross'd  the  seas, 

I  cannot  well  determine, 
A  swarm  of  rebels  and  of  fleas, 

And  every  other  vermin. 

Their    mighty   hearts    might    shrink    they 
tho't. 

For  all  flesh  only  grass  is, 
A  plenteous  store  they  therefore  bought 

Of  whiskey  and  molasses. 

They  swore  they'd  make  bold  Pigot  squeak, 

So  did  their  good  ally,  sir. 
And  take  him  pris'ner  in  a  week, 

But  that  was  all  my  eye,  sir. 

As  Jonathan  so  much  desir'd 

To  shine  in  martial  story, 
D'Estaing  with  politesse  retir'd, 

To  leave  him  all  the  glory. 

He  left  him  what  was  better  yet, 

At  least  it  was  more  use,  sir, 
He  left  him  for  a  quick  retreat 

A  very  good  excuse,  sir. 

To  stay,  unless  he  rul'd  the  sea. 
He  thought  would  not  be  right,  sir, 

And  Continental  troops,  said  he, 
On  islands  should  not  fight,  sir. 

Another  cause  with  these  combin'd 
To  throw  him  in  the  dumps,  sir, 

For  Clinton's  name  alarmed  his  mind, 
And  made  him  stir  his  stumps,  sir. 


Lord  Howe  came  up,  soon  afterwards,  with  the 
British  fleet,  and  made  a  pretence  of  blockading 
the  French  in  Boston  harbor,  but  prudently  with 
drew  when  he  saw  the  French  were  ready  to  put 


RUNNING   THE   BLOCKADE 


215 


to  sea  again.  The  latter  abandoned  all  attempt  to 
cooperate  with  the  Americans  and  sailed  away 
for  the  West  Indies. 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE 

[September,  1778] 

WHEN  the  French  fleet  lay 
In  Massachusetts  bay 
In  that  day 

When  the  British  squadron  made 
Its  impudent  parade 
Of  blockade; 

All  along  and  up  and  down 
The  harbor  of  the  town,  — 

The  brave,  proud  town 

That  had  fought  with  all  its  might 
Its  bold,  brave  fight 
For  the  right, 

To  win  its  way  alone 
And  hold  and  rule  its  own, 
Such  a  groan 

From  the  stanch  hearts  and  stout 
Of  the  Yankees  there  went  out: 
But  to  rout 

The  British  lion  then 
Were  maddest  folly,  when 
One  to  ten 

Their  gallant  allies  lay. 
Scant  of  powder,  day  by  day 
In  the  bay. 

Chafing  thus,  impatient,  sore, 
One  day  along  the  shore 
Slowly  bore 

A  clipper  schooner,  worn 
And  rough  and  forlorn, 
With  its  torn 

Sails  fluttering  in  the  air: 
The  British  sailors  stare 
At  her  there. 

So  cool  and  unafraid. 
'What!  she's  running  the  blockade, 
The  jade!" 


They  all  at  once  roar  out, 
Then  —  "Damn  the  Yankee  lout!" 
They  shout. 

Athwart  her  bows  red  hot 
They  send  a  challenge  shot; 
But  not 

An  inch  to  right  or  left  she  veers, 
Straight  on  and  on  she  steers, 
Nor  hears 

Challenge  or  shout,  until 
Rings  forth  with  British  will 
A  shrill 

" Heave  to!"  Then  sharp  and  short 
Question  and  quick  retort 
Make  British  sport. 

'What  is  it  that  you  say,  — 
Where  do  I  hail  from  pray. 
What  is  my  cargo,  eh  ? 

'  My  cargo  ?  I  '11  allow 
You  can  hear  'em  crowin'  now, 
At  the  bow. 

'And  I've  long-faced  gentry  too, 
For  passengers  and  crew, 
Just  a  few, 

'To  fatten  up,  you  know, 
For  home  use,  and  a  show 

Of  garden  sass  and  so. 

'And  from  Taunton  town  I  hail; 
Good  Lord,  it  was  a  gale 
When  I  set  sail!" 

The  British  captain  laught 
As  he  leaned  there  abaft: 

"  *T  is  a  harmless  craft, 

'And  a  harmless  fellow  too, 
With  his  long-faced  gentry  crew; 
Let  him  through," 

He  cried;  and  a  gay  "Heave  ahead!" 
Sounded  forth,  and  there  sped 
Down  the  red 

Sunset  track,  unafraid. 
Straight  through  the  blockade, 
This  jade 


2l6 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Of  a  harmless  craft, 
Packed  full  to  her  draught, 
Fore  and  aft, 

With  powder  and  shot. 
One  day  when,  red  hot 
The  British  got 

Their  full  share  and  more 

Of  this  cargo,  they  swore, 

With  a  roar, 

At  the  trick  she  had  played, 
This  "damned  Yankee  jade" 

Who  had  run  the  blockade! 
NORA  PERRY. 


The  abortive  expedition  against  Rhode  Island 
practically  ended  the  war  at  the  north,  and  for  a 
time  the  scene  of  activity  was  transferred  to  the 
frontier.  The  Indians  had  naturally  allied  them 
selves  with  the  British  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
and  early  in  September,  1 777,  attacked  Fort  Henry, 
near  Wheeling,  but  were  beaten  off  after  a  desper 
ate  fight,  during  which  the  garrison  was  saved  by 
the  famous  exploit  of  Elizabeth  Zane. 

BETTY   ZANE 

[September,  1777] 

WOMEN  are  timid,  cower  and  shrink 
At  show  of  danger,  some  folk  think; 
But  men  there  are  who  for  their  lives 
Dare  not  so  far  asperse  their  wives. 
We  let  that  pass  —  so  much  is  clear, 
Though  little  perils  they  may  fear, 
When  greater  perils  men  environ, 
Then  women  show  a  front  of  iron; 
And,  gentle  in  their  manner,  they 
Do  bold  things  in  a  quiet  way. 
And  so  our  wondering  praise  obtain, 
As  on  a  time  did  Betty  Zane. 

A  century  since,  out  in  the  West, 
A  block-house  was  by  Girty  pressed  — 
Girty,  the  renegade,  the  dread 
Of  all  that  border,  fiercely  led 
Five  hundred  Wyandots,  to  gain 
Plunder  and  scalp-locks  from  the  slain; 
And  in  this  hold  —  Fort  Henry  then, 
But  Wheeling  now  —  twelve  boys  and  men 
Guarded  with  watchful  ward  and  care 
Women  and  prattling  children  there, 
Against  their  rude  and  savage  foes, 
And  Betty  Zane  was  one  of  those. 


There  had  been  forty-two  at  first 
When  Girty  on  the  border  burst; 
But  most  of  those  who  meant  to  stay 
And  keep  the  Wyandots  at  bay. 
Outside  by  savage  wiles  were  lured, 
And  ball  and  tomahawk  endured, 
Till  few  were  left  the  place  to  hold, 
And  some  were  boys  and  some  were  old; 
But  all  could  use  the  rifle  well, 
And  vainly  from  the  Indians  fell, 
On  puncheon  roof  and  timber  wall, 
The  fitful  shower  of  leaden  ball. 

Now  Betty's  brothers  and  her  sire 
Were  with  her  in  this  ring  of  fire, 
And  she  was  ready,  in  her  way, 
To  aid  their  labor  day  by  day, 
In  all  a  quiet  maiden  might. 
To  mould  the  bullets  for  the  fight, 
And,  quick  to  note  and  so  report, 
Watch  every  act  outside  the  fort; 
Or,  peering  through  the  loopholes,  see 
Each  phase  of  savage  strategy  — 
These  were  her  tasks,  and  thus  the  maid 
The  toil-worn  garrison  could  aid. 

Still,  drearily  the  fight  went  on 
Until  a  week  had  nearly  gone, 
When  it  was  told  —  a  whisper  first, 
And  then  in  loud  alarm  it  burst  — 
Their  powder  scarce  was  growing;  they 
Knew  where  a  keg  unopened  lay 
Outside  the  fort  at  Zane's  —  what  now  ? 
Their  leader  stood  with  anxious  brow. 
It  must  be  had  at  any  cost, 
Or  toil  and  fort  and  lives  were  lost. 
Some  one  must  do  that  work  of  fear; 
What  man  of  men  would  volunteer  ? 

Two  offered,  and  so  earnest  they, 
Neither  his  purpose  would  give  way; 
And  Shepherd,  who  commanded,  dare 
Not  pick  or  choose  between  the  pair. 
But  ere  they  settled  on  the  one 
By  whom  the  errand  should  be  done, 
Young  Betty  interposed,  and  said, 
'Let  me  essay  the  task  instead. 
Small  matter  't  were  if  Betty  Zane, 
A  useless  woman,  should  be  slain; 
But  death,  if  dealt  on  one  of  those, 
Gives  too  much  vantage  to  our  foes." 

Her  father  smiled  with  pleasure  grim  — 
Her  pluck  gave  painful  pride  to  him; 


THE  WYOMING   MASSACRE 


217 


And  while  her  brothers  clamored  "No!" 

He  uttered,  "  Boys,  let  Betty  go ! 

She'll  do  it  at  less  risk  than  you; 

But  keep  her  steady  in  your  view, 

And  be  your  rifles  shields  for  her. 

If  yonder  foe  make  step  or  stir, 

Pick  off  each  wretch  who  draws  a  bead, 

And  so  you  '11  serve  her  in  her  need. 

Now  I  recover  from  surprise, 

I  think  our  Betty's  purpose  wise." 

The  gate  was  opened,  on  she  sped; 
The  foe,  astonished,  gazed,  't  is  said, 
And  wondered  at  her  purpose,  till 
She  gained  that  log-hut  by  the  hill. 
But  when,  in  apron  wrapped,  the  cask 
She  backward  bore,  to  close  her  task, 
The  foemen  saw  her  aim  at  last, 
And  poured  their  fire  upon  her  fast. 
Bullet  on  bullet  near  her  fell. 
While  rang  the  Indians'  angry  yell; 
But  safely  through  that  whirring  rain, 
Powder  in  arms,  came  Betty  Zane. 

They  filled  their  horns,  both  boys  and  men, 

And  so  began  the  fight  again. 

Girty,  who  there  so  long  had  stayed, 

By  this  new  feat  of  feet  dismayed. 

Fired  houses  round  and  cattle  slew, 

And  moved  away  —  the  fray  was  through. 

But  when  the  story  round  was  told 

How  they  maintained  the  leaguered  hold, 

It  was  agreed,  though  fame  was  due 

To  all  who  in  that  fight  were  true. 

The  highest  meed  of  praise,  't  was  plain, 

Fell  to  the  share  of  Betty  Zane. 

A  hundred  years  have  passed  since  then; 
The  savage  never  came  again. 
Girty  is  dust;  alike  are  dead 
Those  who  assailed  and  those  bestead. 
Upon  those  half-cleared,  rolling  lands, 
A  crowded  city  proudly  stands; 
But  of  the  many  who  reside 
By  green  Ohio's  rushing  tide. 
Not  one  has  lineage  prouder  than 
(Be  he  or  poor  or  rich)  the  man 
Who  boasts  that  in  his  spotless  strain 
Mingles  the  blood  of  Betty  Zane. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Early  in  July,  1 778,  the  Indians  struck  a  blow  at 
which  the  whole  country  stood  aghast.  The  valley 
of  Wyoming,  in  northeastern  Pennsylvania,  had, 
by  its  fertility,  attracted  many  settlers.  The 


position  of  the  settlement  was  peculiarly  exposed, 
and  yet  it  had  sent  the  best  part  of  its  militia  to 
serve  with  Washington.  This  circumstance  did 
not  escape  the  eyes  of  the  enemy,  and  on  July  3, 
1778,  a  force  of  twelve  hundred  Indians  and  Tories 
fell  upon  the  settlement,  routed  the  garrison,  tor 
tured  the  prisoners  to  death,  and  plundered  and 
burned  the  houses.  The  settlers  fled  to  the  woods, 
where  nearly  a  hundred  women  and  children 
perished  of  fatigue  and  starvation. 

THE  WYOMING  MASSACRE 

[July3,  1778] 

KIND  Heaven,  assist  the  trembling  muse, 

While  she  attempts  to  tell 
Of  poor  Wyoming's  overthrow 

By  savage  sons  of  hell. 

One  hundred  whites,  in  painted  hue, 

Whom  Butler  there  did  lead. 
Supported  by  a  barb'rous  crew 

Of  the  fierce  savage  breed. 

The  last  of  June  the  siege  began, 

And  several  days  it  held, 
While  many  a  brave  and  valiant  man 

Lay  slaughtered  on  the  field. 

Our  troops  marched  out  from  Forty  Fort 

The  third  day  of  July, 
Three  hundred  strong,  they  marched  along, 

The  fate  of  war  to  try. 

But  oh!  alas!  three  hundred  men 

Is  much  too  small  a  band 
To  meet  eight  hundred  men  complete, 

And  make  a  glorious  stand. 

Four  miles  they  marched  from  the  Fort 

Their  enemy  to  meet, 
Too  far  indeed  did  Butler  lead, 

To  keep  a  safe  retreat. 

And  now  the  fatal  hour  is  come  — 

They  bravely  charge  the  foe, 
And  they,  with  ire,  returned  the  fire, 

Which  prov'd  our  overthrow. 

Some  minutes  they  sustained  the  fire, 

But  ere  they  were  aware. 
They  were  encompassed  all  around, 

Which  prov'd  a  fatal  snare. 

And  then  they  did  attempt  to  fly, 
But  all  was  now  in  vain, 


218 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Their  little  host  —  by  far  the  most  — 
Was  by  those  Indians  slain. 

And  as  they  fly,  for  quarters  cry; 

Oh  hear!  indulgent  Heav'n! 
Hard  to  relate  —  their  dreadful  fate, 

No  quarters  must  be  given. 

With  bitter  cries  and  mournful  sighs, 

They  seek  some  safe  retreat. 
Run  here  and  there,  they  know  not  where, 

Till  awful  death  they  meet. 

Their  piercing  cries  salute  the  skies  — 

Mercy  is  all  their  cry: 
"Our  souls  prepare  God's  grace  to  share, 

We  instantly  must  die." 

Some  men  yet  found  are  flying  round 

Sagacious  to  get  clear; 
In  vain  to  fly,  their  foes  too  nigh! 

They  front  the  flank  and  rear. 

And  now  the  foe  hath  won  the  day, 
Methinks  their  words  are  these: 

"  Ye  cursed,  rebel,  Yankee  race. 
Will  this  your  Congress  please  ? 

"Your  pardons  crave,  you  them  shall  have, 

Behold  them  in  our  hands; 
We'll  all  agree  to  set  you  free, 

By  dashing  out  your  brains. 

"And  as  for  you,  enlisted  crew, 
We'll  raise  your  honors  higher: 

Pray  turn  your  eye,  where  you  must  lie, 
In  yonder  burning  fire." 

Then  naked  in  those  flames  they're  cast, 

Too  dreadful  't  is  to  tell. 
Where  they  must  fry,  and  burn  and  die, 

While  cursed  Indians  yell. 

Nor  son,  nor  sire,  these  tigers  spare,  — 

The  youth,  and  hoary  head, 
Were  by  those  monsters  murdered  there, 

And  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Methinks  I  hear  some  sprightly  youth 

His  mournful  state  condole: 
"Oh,  that  my  tender  parents  knew 

The  anguish  of  my  soul! 

"  But  oh !  there 's  none  to  save  my  life, 
Or  heed  my  dreadful  fear; 


I  see  the  tomahawk  and  knife, 
And  the  more  glittering  spear. 

"When  years  ago,  I  dandled  was 

Upon  my  parents'  knees, 
I  little  thought  I  should  be  brought 

To  feel  such  pangs  as  these. 

"I  hoped  for  many  a  joyful  day, 

I  hoped  for  riches'  store  — 
These  golden  dreams  are  fled  away; 

I  straight  shall  be  no  more. 

"Farewell,  fond  mother;  late  I  was 

Locked  up  in  your  embrace; 
Your  heart  would  ache,  and  even  break, 

If  you  could  know  my  case. 

"Farewell,  indulgent  parents  dear, 

I  must  resign  my  breath; 
I  now  must  die,  and  here  must  lie 

In  the  cold  arms  of  death. 

"  For  oh !  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 

I  see  the  bloody  knife,  — 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul!" 

And  quick  resigned  his  life. 

A  doleful  theme;  yet,  pensive  muse, 

Pursue  the  doleful  theme; 
It  is  no  fancy  to  delude. 

Nor  transitory  dream. 

The  Forty  Fort  was  the  resort 

For  mother  and  for  child. 
To  save  them  from  the  cruel  rage 

Of  the  fierce  savage  wild. 

Now,  when  the  news  of  this  defeat 

Had  sounded  in  our  ears, 
You  well  may  know  our  dreadful  woe, 

And  our  foreboding  fears. 

A  doleful  sound  is  whispered  round, 

The  sun  now  hides  his  head; 
The  nightly  gloom  forebodes  our  doom. 

We  all  shall  soon  be  dead. 

How  can  we  bear  the  dreadful  spear, 

The  tomahawk  and  knife? 
And  if  we  run,  the  awful  gun 

Will  rob  us  of  our  life. 

But  Heaven!  kind  Heaven,  propitious  power! 
His  hand  we  must  adore. 


THE   CRUISE   OF  THE   FAIR   AMERICAN 


219 


He  did  assuage  the  savage  rage, 
That  they  should  kill  no  more. 

The  gloomy  night  now  gone  and  past, 

The  sun  returns  again, 
The  little  birds  from  every  bush 

Seem  to  lament  the  slain. 

With  aching  hearts  and  trembling  hands, 

We  walked  here  and  there, 
Till  through  the  northern  pines  we  saw 

A  flag  approaching  near. 

Some  men  were  chose  to  meet  this  flag, 

Our  colonel  was  the  chief, 
Who  soon  returned  and  in  his  mouth 

He  brought  an  olive  leaf. 

This  olive  leaf  was  granted  Kfe, 

But  then  we  must  no  more 
Pretend  to  fight  with  Britain's  king, 

Until  the  wars  are  o'er. 


And  now  poor  Westmoreland  is  lost, 
Our  forts  are  all  resigned, 

Our  buildings  they  are  all  on  fire,  — 
What  shelter  can  we  find? 


They  did  agree  in  black  and  white, 
If  we'd  lay  down  our  arms, 

That  all  who  pleased  might  quietly 
Remain  upon  their  farms. 

But  oh !  they  Ve  robbed  us  of  our  all, 

They've  taken  all  but  life, 
And  we'll  rejoice  and  bless  the  Lord, 

If  this  may  end  the  strife. 

And  now  I  Ve  told  my  mournful  tale, 

I  hope  you  'II  all  agree 
To  help  our  cause  and  break  the  jaws 

Of  cruel  tyranny. 

URIAH  TERRY. 


CHAPTER   VIII 


THE   WAR   ON   THE   WATER 


At  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  the  colonies 
had  no  navy,  but  a  number  of  cruisers  and  pri 
vateers  were  soon  fitted  out,  and  by  the  end  of 
1776  nearly  three  hundred  British  vessels  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Americans.  This  ac 
tivity  was  kept  up  during  the  succeeding  year,  the 
cruise  of  the  Fair  American,  as  described  in  the 
old  ballad  of  that  name,  being  one  of  the  most 
noteworthy. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  FAIR 
AMERICAN 

11777] 

THE  twenty-second  of  August, 

Before  the  close  of  day, 
All  hands  on  board  of  our  privateer, 

We  got  her  under  weigh; 
WTe  kept  the  Eastern  shore  along, 

For  forty  leagues  or  more. 
Then  our  departure  look  for  sea, 

From  the  isle  of  Mauhegan  shore. 

Bold  Hawthorne  was  commander, 

A  man  of  real  worth, 
Old  England's  cruel  tyranny 

Induced  him  to  go  forth; 


She,  with  relentless  fury, 

Was  plundering  all  our  coast, 

And  thought,  because  her  strength  was 

great, 
Our  glorious  cause  was  lost. 

Yet  boast  not,  haughty  Britons, 

Of  power  and  dignity, 
By  land  thy  conquering  armies, 

Thy  matchless  strength  at  sea; 
Since  taught  by  numerous  instances 

Americans  can  fight, 
With  valor  can  equip  their  stand, 

Your  armies  put  to  flight. 

Now  farewell  to  fair  America, 

Farewell  our  friends  and  wives; 
We  trust  in  Heaven's  peculiar  care 

For  to  protect  their  lives; 
To  prosper  our  intended  cruise 

Upon  the  raging  main. 
And  to  preserve  our  dearest  friends 

Till  we  return  again. 

The  wind  it  being  leading, 
It  bore  us  on  our  way, 


220 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


As  far  unto  the  southward 

As  the  Gulf  of  Florida; 
Where  we  fell  in  with  a  British  ship, 

Bound  homeward  from  the  main; 
We  gave  her  two  bow-chasers, 

And  she  returned  the  same. 

We  hauled  up  our  courses, 

And  so  prepared  for  fight; 
The  contest  held  four  glasses, 

Until  the  dusk  of  night; 
Then  having  sprung  our  main-mast, 

And  had  so  large  a  sea, 
We  dropped  astern  and  left  our  chase 

Till  the  returning  day. 

Next  morn  we  fished  our  main-mast, 

The  ship  still  being  nigh, 
All  hands  made  for  engaging, 

Our  chance  once  more  to  try; 
But  wind  and  sea  being  boisterous, 

Our  cannon  would  not  bear, 
We  thought  it  quite  imprudent 

And  so  we  left  her  there. 

We  cruised  to  the  eastward, 

Near  the  coast  of  Portugal, 
In  longitude  of  twenty-seven 

We  saw  a  lofty  sail; 
We  gave  her  chase,  and  soon  perceived 

She  was  a  British  snow 
Standing  for  fair  America, 

With  troops  for  General  Howe. 

Our  captain  did  inspect  her 

With  glasses,  and  he  said, 
'My  boys,  she  means  to  fight  us, 

But  be  you  not  afraid; 
All  hands  repair  to  quarters, 

See  everything  is  clear. 
We'll  give  her  a  broadside,  my  boys, 

As  soon  as  she  comes  near." 

She  was  prepared  with  nettings, 

And  her  men  were  well  secured, 
And  bore  directly  for  us, 

And  put  us  close  on  board; 
When  the  cannon  roared  like  thunder, 

And  the  muskets  fired  amain, 
But  soon  we  were  alongside 

And  grappled  to  her  chain. 

And  now  the  scene  it  altered, 

The  cannon  ceased  to  roar, 
We  fought  with  swords  and  boarding-pikes 

One  glass  or  something  more, 


Till  British  pride  and  glory 
No  longer  dared  to  stay, 

But  cut  the  Yankee  grapplings, 
And  quickly  bore  away. 

Our  case  was  not  so  desperate 

As  plainly  might  appear; 
Yet  sudden  death  did  enter 

On  board  our  privateer. 
Mahoney,  Crew,  and  Clemmons, 

The  valiant  and  the  brave, 
Fell  glorious  in  the  contest, 

And  met  a  watery  grave. 

Ten  other  men  were  wounded 

Among  our  warlike  crew, 
With  them  our  noble  captain, 

To  whom  all  praise  is  due; 
To  him  and  all  our  officers 

Let's  give  a  hearty  cheer; 
Success  to  fair  America 

And  our  good  privateer. 


The  Americans  were  not  without  their  losses, 
and  one  of  the  most  serious  occurred  early  in  1778. 
On  the  morning  of  March  7,  the  32-gun  frigate 
Randolph,  Captain  Nicholas  Biddle,  while  cruis 
ing  off  Barbadoes,  fell  in  with  the  English  64-gun 
ship  of  the  line  Yarmouth,  and  attacked  imme 
diately.  The  fight  had  lasted  about  an  hour  when 
the  Randolph's  magazine  was  in  some  way  fired, 
and  the  ship  blew  up.  Of  the  crew  of  three  hundred 
and  fifteen,  only  four  were  saved. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CAPTAIN 
NICHOLAS  BIDDLE 

[March  7,  1778] 

WHAT  distant  thunders  rend  the  skies, 
What  clouds  of  smoke  in  volumes  rise, 

What  means  this  dreadful  roar! 
Is  from  his  base  Vesuvius  thrown, 
Is  sky-topt  Atlas  tumbled  down, 

Or  Etna's  self  no  more! 

Shock  after  shock  torments  my  ear; 
And  lo!  two  hostile  ships  appear, 

Red  lightnings  round  them  glow: 
The  Yarmouth  boasts  of  sixty-four. 
The  Randolph  thirty-two  —  no  more  — 

And  will  she  fight  this  foe! 

The  Randolph  soon  on  Stygian  streams 
Shall  coast  along  the  land  of  dreams, 
The  islands  of  the  dead! 


THE    YANKEE   PRIVATEER 


221 


But  fate,  that  parts  them  on  the  deep, 
Shall  save  the  Briton,  still  to  weep 
His  ancient  honors  fled. 

Say,  who  commands  that  dismal  blaze, 
Where  yonder  starry  streamer  plays; 

Does  Mars  with  Jove  engage! 
'T  is  Biddle  wings  those  angry  fires, 
Biddle,  whose  bosom  Jove  inspires 

With  more  than  mortal  rage. 

Tremendous  flash!  and  hark,  the  ball 
Drives  through  old  Yarmouth,  flames  and 
all; 

Her  bravest  sons  expire; 
Did  Mars  himself  approach  so  nigh, 
Even  Mars,  without  disgrace,  might  fly 

The  Randolph's  fiercer  fire. 

The  Briton  views  his  mangled  crew, 
"And  shall  we  strike  to  thirly-tuio  " 

(Said  Hector,  stained  with  gore); 
"  Shall  Britain's  flag  to  these  descend  — 
Rise,  and  the  glorious  conflict  end, 

Britons,  I  ask  no  more!" 

He  spoke  —  they  charged  their  cannon  round, 
Again  the  vaulted  heavens  resound, 

The  Randolph  bore  it  all. 
Then  fixed  her  pointed  cannons  true  — 
Away  the  unwieldy  vengeance  flew; 

Britain,  the  warriors  fall. 

The  Yarmouth  saw,  with  dire  dismay, 
Her  wounded  hull,  shrouds  shot  away, 

Her  boldest  heroes  dead  — 
She  saw  amidst  her  floating  slain 
The  conquering  Randolph  stem  the  main  — 

She  saw,  she  turned,  and  fled! 

That  hour,  blest  chief,  had  she  been  thine, 
Dear  Biddle,  had  the  powers  divine 

Been  kind  as  thou  wert  brave; 
But  fate,  who  doomed  thee  to  expire, 
Prepared  an  arrow  tipped  with  fire, 

And  marked  a  watery  grave, 

And  in  that  hour  when  conquest  came 
Winged  at  his  ship  a  pointed  flame 

That  not  even  he  could  shun  — 
The  conquest  ceased,  the  Yarmouth  fled, 
The  bursting  Randolph  ruin  spread, 

And  lost  what  honor  won. 

PHILIP  FBENEAU. 


Among  the  most  successful  of  the  Yankee  pri 
vateers  was  the  Providence,  and  her  most  famous 
exploit  was  performed  in  July,  1779,  when  she 
attacked  a  fleet  of  merchantmen,  under  convoy 
of  a  ship  of  the  line  and  some  cruisers,  and  cap 
tured  ten  prizes,  nine  of  which,  valued  at  over  a 
million  dollars,  were  got  safely  to  Boston.  The 
Providence  was  commanded  by  Abraham  Whip- 
pie,  the  hero  of  the  Gaspee  exploit  and  of  a  hun 
dred  others. 


THE   YANKEE   PRIVATEER 

[July,  1779] 

COME  listen  and  I  '11  tell  you 

How  first  I  went  to  sea, 
To  fight  against  the  British 

And  earn  our  liberty. 
We  shipped  with  Cap'n  Whipple 

Who  never  knew  a  fear, 
The  Captain  of  the  Providence, 

The  Yankee  Privateer. 

We  sailed  and  we  sailed 

And  made  good  cheer, 
There  were  many  pretty  men 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

The  British  Lord  High  Admiral 

He  wished  old  Whipple  harm, 
He  wrote  that  he  would  hang  him 

At  the  end  of  his  yard  arm. 
"My  Lord,"  wrote  Cap'n  Whipple  back, 

"It  seems  to  me  it's  clear 
That  if  you  want  to  hang  him, 

You  must  catch  your  Privateer." 

We  sailed  and  we  sailed 

And  made  good  cheer, 
For  not  a  British  frigate 

Could  come  near  the  Privateer. 

We  sailed  to  the  south 'ard, 

And  nothing  did  we  meet, 
Till  we  found  three  British  frigates 

And  their  WTest  Indian  fleet. 
Old  Whipple  shut  our  ports 

As  we  crawled  up  near, 
And  he  sent  us  all  below 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

So  slowly  he  sailed 

We  dropped  to  the  rear, 
And  not  a  soul  suspected 

The  Yankee  Privateer. 


222 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


At  night  we  put  the  lights  out 

And  forward  we  ran 
And  silently  we  boarded 

The  biggest  merchantman. 
We  knocked  down  the  watch,  — 

And  the  lubbers  shook  for  fear, 
She's  a  prize  without  a  shot 

To  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

We  sent  the  prize  north 

While  we  lay  near 
And  all  day  we  slept 

On  the  bold  Privateer. 

For  ten  nights  we  followed, 

And  ere  the  moon  rose, 
Each  night  a  prize  we'd  taken 

Beneath  the  Lion's  nose. 
When  the  British  looked  to  see 

Why  their  ships  should  disappear, 
They  found  they  had  in  convoy 

A  Yankee  Privateer. 

But  we  sailed  and  sailed 

And  made  good  cheer! 
Not  a  coward  was  on  board 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

The  biggest  British  frigate 

Bore  round  to  give  us  chase, 
But  though  he  was  the  fleeter 

Old  Whipple  would  n't  race, 
Till  he'd  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

For  the  lubbers  could  n't  steer, 
Then  he  showed  them  the  heels 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

Then  we  sailed  and  we  sailed 
And  we  made  good  cheer, 

For  not  a  British  frigate 

Could  come  near  the  Privateer. 

Then  northward  we  sailed 

To  the  town  we  all  know, 
And  there  lay  our  prizes 

All  anchored  in  a  row; 
And  welcome  were  we 

To  our  friends  so  dear, 
And  we  shared  a  million  dollars 

On  the  bold  Privateer. 

We'd  sailed  and  we'd  sailed 
And  we  made  good  cheer, 

We  had  all  full  pockets 
On  the  bold  Privateer. 


Then  we  each  manned  a  ship 

And  our  sails  we  unfurled, 
And  we  bore  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

O'er  the  oceans  of  the  world. 
From  the  proud  flag  of  Britain 

We  swept  the  seas  clear, 
And  we  earned  our  independence 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

Then  landsmen  and  sailors, 

One  more  cheer! 
Here  is  three  times  three 

For  the  Yankee  Privateer! 

ARTHUR  HALE. 

The  achievements  of  other  American  naval 
captains  were  soon  eclipsed  by  those  of  John  Paul 
Jones,  a  Scotch  sailor,  settled  in  Virginia,  who,  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war,  offered  his  services  to  Con 
gress.  In  1776,  on  board  the  Alfred,  in  the  Dela 
ware  River,  he  raised  the  first  flag  of  the  Revo 
lution,  —  a  pine  tree,  with  a  rattlesnake  coiled 
at  the  foot,  and  the  motto,  "Don't  tread  on  me." 

PAUL   JONES 

A  SONG  unto  Liberty's  brave  Buccaneer, 
Ever  bright  be  the  fame  of  the  patriot 

Rover, 
For  our  rights  he  first  fought  in  his  "black 

privateer," 

And  faced  the  proud  foe  ere  our  sea  they 
cross'd  over, 

In  their  channel  and  coast, 
Ke  scattered  their  host, 
And  proud  Britain  robbed  of  her  sea-ruling 

boast, 
And  her  rich  merchants'  barks  shunned  the 

ocean  in  fear 

Of  Paul  Jones,  fair  Liberty's  brave  Buc 
caneer. 

In  the  first  fleet  that  sailed  in  defence  of  our 

land, 

Paul  Jones  forward  stood  to  defend  free 
dom's  arbor, 

He  led  the  bold  Alfred  at  Hopkins'  command, 
And  drove  the  fierce  foeman  from  Provi 
dence  harbor, 

'T  was  his  hand  that  raised 
The  first  flag  that  blazed, 
And  his  deeds  'neath  the  "Pine  tree"  all 

ocean  amaz'd, 

For  hundreds  of  foes  met  a  watery  bier 
From  Paul  Jones,  fair  Liberty's  brave  Bucr 
cancer. 


THE  YANKEE  MAN-OF-WAR 


223 


His  arm  crushed  the  Tory  and  mutinous  crew 
That  strove  to  have  freemen  inhumanly 

butchered ; 

Remember  his  valor  at  proud  Flamborough, 
When  he  made  the  bold  Serapis  strike  to 
the  Richard; 

Oh !  he  robbed  of  their  store 
The  vessels  sent  o'er 
To    feed   all   the  Tories  and   foes   on   our 

shore, 
He  gave  freemen  the  spoils  and  long  may  they 

revere 
The  name  of  fair  Liberty's  bold  Buccaneer. 


In  1 778  he  was  sent  with  the  18-gun  ship  Ranger 
to  prowl  about  the  British  coasts.  He  entered 
the  Irish  Channel,  seized  the  Lord  Chatham,  set 
fire  to  the  shipping  at  Whitehaven,  and  captured 
the  British  20-gun  sloop  Drake,  after  a  fierce  fight. 
With  the  Drake  and  several  merchant  prizes,  he 
made  his  way  to  Brest,  and  prepared  for  a  more 
important  expedition  which  was  fitting  out  for 
the  following  year. 


THE   YANKEE  MAN-OF-WAR 

[1778] 

'T  is  of  a  gallant  Yankee  ship  that  flew  the 

stripes  and  stars, 
And  the  whistling  wind  from  the  west-nor'- 

west    blew    through    the    pitch-pine 

spars,  — 
With  her  starboard  tacks  aboard,  my  boys, 

she  hung  upon  the  gale, 
On  an  autumn  night  we  raised  the  light  on 

the  old  head  of  Kinsale. 

It  was  a  clear  and  cloudless  night,  and  the 

wind  blew  steady  and  strong, 
As  gayly  over  the  sparkling  deep  our  good  ship 

bowled  along; 
With  the  foaming  seas  beneath  her  bow  the 

fiery  waves  she  spread, 
And  bending  low  her  bosom  of  snow,  she 

buried  her  lee  cat-head. 

There  was  no  talk  of  short'ning  sail  by  him 

who  walked  the  poop, 
And  under  the  press  of  her  pond'ring  jib,  the 

boom  bent  like  a  hoop! 
And  the  groaning  water-ways  told  the  strain 

that  held  her  stout  main-tack, 
But  he  only  laughed  as  he  glanced  aloft  at  a 

white  and  silv'ry  track. 


The  mid-tide  meets  in  the  channel  waves  that 

flow  from  shore  to  shore. 
And  the  mist  hung  heavy  upon  the  land  from 

Featherstone  to  Dunmore, 
And  that  sterling  light  in  Tusker  Rock  where 

the  old  bell  tolls  each  hour, 
And  the  beacon  light  that  shone  so  bright  was 

quench'd  on  Waterford  Tower. 

The  nightly  robes  our  good  ship  wore  were 

her  own  top-sails  three, 
Her   spanker   and   her   standing   jib  —  the 

courses  being  free; 
"Now,  lay  aloft!  my  heroes  bold,  let  not  a 

moment  pass!" 
And  royals  and  top-gallant  sails  were  quickly 

on  each  mast. 

What  looms  upon  our  starboard  bow  ?  What 

hangs  upon  the  breeze  ? 
'T  is  time  our  good  ship  hauled  her  wind 

abreast  the  old  Saltee's, 
For  by  her  ponderous  press  of  sail  and  by  her 

consorts  four 
We  saw  our  morning  visitor  was  a  British 

man-of-war. 

Up  spake  our  noble  Captain  then,  as  a  shot 
ahead  of  us  past  — 

"Haul  snug  your  flowing  courses!  lay  your 
top-sail  to  the  mast!" 

Those  Englishmen  gave  three  loud  hur 
rahs  from  the  deck  of  their  covered 
ark, 

And  we  answered  back  by  a  solid  broadside 
from  the  decks  of  our  patriot  bark. 

"Out  booms!  out  booms!"  our  skipper  cried, 

"out  booms  and  give  her  sheet," 
And  the  swiftest  keel  that  was  ever  launched 

shot  ahead  of  the  British  fleet, 
And  amidst  a  thundering  shower  of  shot  with 

stun'-sails  hoisting  away, 
Down  the  North  Channel  Paul  Jones  did  steer 

just  at  the  break  of  day. 


The  new  squadron  sailed  for  the  English  coast 
in  the  summer  of  1779.  It  consisted  of  the  flag 
ship  —  a  clumsy  old  Indiaman  called  the  Duras, 
whose  name  Jones  changed  to  Bon  Homme  Rich 
ard  —  and  four  consorts.  The  summer  was  spent 
in  cruising  about  the  British  coast  and  so  much 
damage  was  done  that  Paul  Jones  became  a  sort 
of  bogey  to  all  England. 


224 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


PAUL   JONES  — A   NEW   SONG 

OF  heroes  and  statesmen  I'll  just  mention 

four, 
That  cannot  be  match'd,  if  we  trace  the  world 

o'er, 
For  none  of  such  fame  ever  stept  o'er  the 

stones, 
As  Green,  Jemmy  Twitcher,  Lord  North,  and 

Paul  Jones. 

Thro'  a  mad-hearted  war,  which  old  England 

will  rue, 

At  London,  at  Dublin,  and  Edinburgh,  too, 
The  tradesmen  stand  still,  and  the  merchant 

bemoans 
The  losses  he  meets  with  from  such  as  Paul 

Jones. 

How  happy  for  England,  would  Fortune  but 

sweep 
At   once   all    her    treacherous   foes    to    the 

deep; 
For  the  land  under  burthens  most  bitterly 

groans, 
To  get  rid  of  some  that  are  worse  than  Paul 

Jones. 

To  each  honest  heart  that  is  Britain's  true 
friend, 

In  bumpers  I'll  freely  this  toast  recom 
mend, 

May  Paul  be  converted,  the  Ministry  purg'd, 

Old  England  be  free,  and  her  enemies 
scourg'd ! 

If  success  to  our  fleets  be  not  quickly  re- 

stor'd, 
The  Leaders  in   office   to   shove  from  the 

board; 
May  they  all  fare  alike,  and  the  De'il  pick 

the  bones 
Of  Green,  Jemmy  Twitcher,  Lord  North,  and 

Paul  Jones! 


On  September  23,  1779,  the  little  squadron 
sighted  a  British  fleet  of  forty  sail  off  Flambor- 
ough  Head.  They  were  merchantmen  bound  for 
the  Baltic  under  convoy  of  the  Serapis,  forty- 
four,  and  the  Countess  of  Scarborough,  twenty. 
Captain  Jones  instantly  gave  ehase,  ordering  his 
consorts  to  form  in  line  of  battle,  but  the  Alliance, 
whose  command  had  been  given  to  a  Frenchman, 
ran  off  to  some  distance,  leaving  the  Richard  to 
attack  the  Serapis  single-handed ,  while  the  Pallas 
took  care  of  the  Scarborough. 


PAUL  JONES 

[September  23,  17791 

AN  American  frigate  from  Baltimore  came, 

Her  guns  mounted  forty,  the  Richard  by 
narfle; 

Went  to  cruise  in  the  channel  of  old  Eng 
land, 

With  a  noble  commander.  Paul  Jones  was 
the  man. 

We  had  not  sail'd  long  before  we  did  espy 
A  large  forty-four,  and  a  twenty  close  by: 
These  two  warlike  ships,  full  laden  with 

store, 
Our  captain  pursued  to  the  bold  Yorkshire 

shore. 

At  the  hour  of  twelve,  Pierce  came  along 
side. 

With  a  loud  speaking-trumpet,  "Whence 
came  you  ?  "  he  cried ; 

"Quick  give  me  an  answer,  I  hail'd  you 
before, 

Or  this  very  instant  a  broadside  I'll  pour." 

Paul  Jones  he  exclaimed,  "My  brave  boys, 

we'll  not  run: 
Let  every  brave  seaman  stand  close  to  his 

gun;" 
When  a  broadside  was  fired  by  these  brave 

Englishmen, 
We  bold  buckskin  heroes  return'd  it  again. 

We  fought  them  five  glasses,  five  glasses  most 

hot. 

Till  fifty  brave  seamen  lay  dead  on  the  spot, 
And  full  seventy  more  lay  bleeding  in  their 

gore, 
Whilst  Pierce's  loud  cannon  on  the  Richard 

did  roar. 

Our  gunner,  affrighted,  unto  Paul  Jones  he 
came, 

"Our  ship  is  a-sinking,  likewise  in  a  flame;" 

Paul  Jones  he  replied,  in  the  height  of  his 
pride, 

"If  we  can  do  no  better,  we'll  sink  along 
side." 

At  length  our  shot  flew  so  quick,  they  could 

not  stand: 
The  flag  of  proud  Britain  was  forced  to  come 

down, 


THE   BONHOMME   RICHARD   AND   SERAPIS 


225 


The  Alliance  bore  down  and  the  Richard  did 

rake, 
Which  caused  the  heart  of  Richard  to  ache. 

Come  now,  my  brave  buckskin,  we've  taken 

a  prize, 

A  large  forty-four,  and  a  twenty  likewise ; 
They  are  both  noble  vessels,  well  laden  with 

slore! 
We  will  toss  off  the  can  to  our  country  once 

more. 

God  help  the  poor  widows,  who  shortly  must 
weep 

For  the  loss  of  their  husbands,  now  sunk  in  the 
deep! 

We'll  drink  to  brave  Paul  Jones,  who,  with 
sword  in  hand. 

Shone  foremost  in  action,  and  gave  us  com 
mand. 


The  Serapis  was  greatly  superior  to  the  Richard 
in  armament  and  fighting  qualities,  but  Jones 
succeeded  in  running  his  vessel  into  her  and  lash 
ing  fast.  So  close  did  they  lie  that  their  yard- 
arms  interlocked  and  both  ships  were  soon  cov 
ered  with  dead  and  wounded.  At  the  end  of  two 
hours,  the  Serapis  was  on  fire;  but  the  Richard  was 
already  sinking.  Half  an  hour  later  the  Serapis 
surrendered.  The  Richard  was  kept  afloat  with 
great  difficulty  until  morning,  when  she  sank. 

THE    BONHOMME    RICHARD    AND 
SERAPIS 

[September  23,  1779] 

O'ER  the  rough  main,  with  flowing  sheet, 
The  guardian  of  a  numerous  fleet, 

Serapis  from  the  Baltic  came: 
A  ship  of  less  tremendous  force 
Sail'd  by  her  side  the  self-same  course, 

Countess  of  Scarb'ro'  was  her  name. 

And  now  their  native  coasts  appear, 
Britannia's  hills  their  summits  rear 

Above  the  German  main; 
Fond  to  suppose  their  dangers  o'er, 
They  southward  coast  along  the  shore, 

Thy  waters,  gentle  Thames,  to  gain. 

Full  forty  guns  Serapis  bore. 

And  Scarb'ro's  Countess  twenty-four, 

Mann'd  with  Old  England's  boldest  tars  — 
What  flag  that  rides  the  Gallic  seas 
Shall  dare  attack  such  piles  as  these, 

Design *d  for  tumults  and  for  wars! 


Now  from  the  top-mast's  giddy  height 
A  seaman  cry'd  —  "Four  sail  in  sight 

Approach  with  favoring  gales." 
Pearson,  resolv'd  to  save  the  fleet, 
Stood  off  to  sea,  these  ships  to  meet. 

And  closely  brac'd  his  shivering  sails. 

With  him  advanc'd  the  Countess  bold, 
Like  a  black  tar'in  wars  grown  old: 

And  now  these  floating  piles  drew  nigh. 
But,  muse,  unfold  what  chief  of  fame 
In  the  other  warlike  squadron  came, 

Whose  standards  at  his  mast-head  fly. 

'T  was  Jones,  brave  Jones,  to  battle  led 
As  bold  a  crew  as  ever  bled 

Upon  the  sky-surrounded  main; 
The  standards  of  the  western  world 
Were  to  the  willing  winds  unfurl'd, 

Denying  Britain's  tyrant  reign. 

The  Good-Man-Richard  led  the  line; 
The  Alliance  next:  with  these  combine 

The  Gallic  ship  they  Pallas  call, 
The  Vengeance  arm'd  with  sword  and  flame: 
These  to  attack  the  Britons  came  — 

But  two  accomplish'd  all. 

Now  Phoebus  sought  his  pearly  bed: 
But  who  can  tell  the  scenes  of  dread, 

The  horrors  of  that  fatal  night ! 
Close  up  these  floating  castles  came: 
The  Good-Man-Richard  bursts  in  flame; 

Serapis  trembled  at  the  sight. 

She  felt  the  fury  of  her  ball: 

Down,  prostrate,  down  the  Britons  fall; 

The  decks  were  strew'd  with  slain : 
Jones  to  the  foe  his  vessel  lash'd; 
And,  while  the  black  artillery  flash'd. 

Loud  thunders  shook  the  main. 

Alas!  that  mortals  should  employ 
Such  murdering  engines  to  destroy 

That  frame  by  heaven  so  nicely  join'd ; 
Alas !  that  e'er  the  god  decreed 
That  brother  should  by  brother  bleed, 

And  pour'd  such  madness  in  the  mind. 

But  thou,  brave  Jones,  no  blame  shall  bear, 
The  rights  of  man  demand  your  care: 

For  these  you  dare  the  greedy  waves. 
No  tyrant,  on  destruction  bent, 
Has  plann'd  thy  conquest  —  thou  art  sent 

To  humble  tyrants  and  their  slaves. 


226 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


See !  —  dread  Serapis  flames  again  — 
And  art  thou,  Jones,  among  the  skin, 

And  sunk  to  Neptune's  caves  below  ?  — 
He   lives  —  though    crowds    around     him 

fall. 
Still  he,  unhurt,  survives  them  all; 

Almost  alone  he  fights  the  foe. 

And  can  your  ship  these  strokes  sustain? 
Behold  your  brave  companions  slain, 

All  clasp'd  in  ocean's  cold  embrace; 
STRIKE,  OR  BE  SUNK  —  the  Briton  cries  — 
SINK  IF  YOU  CAN  —  the  chief  replies, 

Fierce  lightnings  blazing  in  his  face. 

Then  to  the  side  three  guns  he  drew 
(Almost  deserted  by  his  crew), 

And  charg'd  them  deep  with  woe; 
By  Pearson's  flash  he  aim'd  hot  balls; 
His  main-mast  totters  —  down  it  falls  — 

Overwhelming  half  below. 

Pearson  had  yet  disdain'd  to  yield, 
But  scarce  his  secret  fears  conceal'd, 

And  thus  was  heard  to  cry  — 
"With  hell,  not  mortals,  1  contend; 
What  art  thou  —  human,  or  a  fiend, 

That  dost  my  force  defy  ? 

"  Return,  my  lads,  the  fight  renew!"  — 
So  call'd  bold  Pearson  to  his  crew; 

But  call'd,  alas!  in  vain; 
Some  on  the  decks  lay  maim'd  and  dead ; 
Some  to  their  deep  recesses  fled, 

And  hosts  were  shrouded  in  the  main. 

Distress'd,  forsaken,  and  alone, 

He  haul'd  his  tatter 'd  standard  down. 

And  yielded  to  his  gallant  foe; 
Bold  Pallas  soon  the  Countess  took,  — 
Thus  both  their  haughty  colors  struck, 

Confessing  what  the  brave  can  do. 

But,  Jones,  too  dearly  didst  thou  buy 
These  ships  posscsf.  so  gloriously, 

Too  many  deaths  disgrac'd  the  fray: 
Thy   barque    that    bore   the   conquering 

flame, 
That  the  proud  Briton  overcame, 

Even  she  forsook  thee  on  thy  way; 

For  when  the  morn  began  to  shine, 
Fatal  to  her,  the  ocean  brine 

jPour'd  through  each  spacious  wound; 


Quick  in  the  deep  she  disappear'd  • 
But  Jones  to  friendly  Be'gia  steer'd, 
With  conquest  and  with  glory  crown 'd. 

Go  on,  great  man,  to  scourgt  the  foe, 
And  bid  these  haughty  Britons  know 

They  to  our  Thirteen  Stars  shall  bend; 
Those  Stars  that,  veil'd  in  dark  attire, 
Long  glimmer'd  with  a  feeble  fire, 

But  radiant  now  ascend. 

Bend  to  the  Stars  that  flaming  rise 
In  western,  not  in  eastern,  skies, 

Fair  Freedom's  reign  restored  — 
So  when  the  Magi,  come  from  far, 
Beheld  the  God-attending  Star, 

They  trembled  and  ador'd. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


Another  remarkable  action  was  that  between 
the  Hyder  Ali  and  the  General  Monk.  The  latter, 
a  cruiser  mounting  twenty  nine-pounders,  had 
been  harassing  the  American  shipping  in  Delaware 
Bay,  and  the  merchants  of  Philadelphia  finally 
equipped  the  Hyder  Ali,  an  old  merchantman, 
with  sixteen  six-pounders,  put  Joshua  Barney  in 
command  and  started  him  after  the  British  ship. 

BARNEY'S  INVITATION 

[April,  1782] 

COME  all  ye  lads  who  know  no  fear, 
To  wealth  and  honor  with  me  steer 
In  the  Hyder  Ali  privateer, 

Commanded  by  brave  Barney. 

She's  new  and  true,  and  tight  and  sound. 
Well  rigged  aloft,  and  all  well  found  — 
Come  away  and  be  with  laurel  crowned, 
Away  —  and  leave  your  lasses. 

Accept  our  terms  without  delay, 

And  make  your  fortunes  while  you  may, 

Such  offers  are  not  every  day 

In  the  power  of  the  jolly  sailor. 

Success  and  fame  attend  the  brave, 
But  death  the  coward  and  the  slave, 
Who  fears  to  plough  the  Atlantic  wave, 
To  seek  the  bold  invaders. 

Come,  then,  and  take  a  cruising  bout, 
Our  ship  sails  well,  there  is  no  doubt, 
She  has  been  tried  both  in  and  out, 
And  answers  expectation. 


SONG 


227 


Let  no  proud  foes  whom  Europe  bore, 
Distress  our  trade,  insult  our  shore  — 
Teach  them  to  know  their  reign  is  o'er, 
Bold  Philadelphia  sailors! 

We'll  teach  them  how  to  sail  so  near, 
Or  to  venture  on  the  Delaware, 
When  we  in  warlike  trim  appear 
And  cruise  without  Henlopen. 

Who  cannot  wounds  and  battle  dare 
Shall  never  clasp  the  blooming  fair; 
The  brave  alone  their  charms  should  share, 
The  brave  are  their  protectors. 

With  hand  and  heart  united  all, 
Prepared  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 
Attend,  my  lads,  to  honor's  call, 
Embark  in  our  Hyder  Ali. 

From    an    Eastern    prince    she  takes    her 

name. 

Who,  smit  with  Freedom's  sacred  flame, 
Usurping  Britons  brought  to  shame, 
His  country's  wrongs  avenging; 

See,  on  her  stern  the  waving  stars  — 
Inured  to  blood,  inured  to  wars, 
Come,  enter  quick,  my  jolly  tars, 

To  scourge  these  warlike  Britons. 

Here 's  grog  enough  —  then  drink  a  bout, 
I  know  your  hearts  are  firm  and  stout; 
American  blood  will  never  give  out. 
And  often  we  have  proved  it. 

Though  stormy  oceans  round  us  roll, 
We'll  keep  a  firm  undaunted  soul. 
Befriended  by  the  cheering  bowl, 
Sworn  foes  to  melancholy: 

When  timorous  landsmen  lurk  on  shore, 
'T  is  ours  to  go  where  cannons  roar  — 
On  a  coasting  cruise  we'll  go  once  more, 
Despisers  of  all  danger; 

And  Fortune  still,  who  crowns  the  brave. 
Shall  guard  us  over  the  gloomy  wave; 
A  fearful  heart  betrays  the  knave  — 
Success  to  the  Hyder  Ali. 

PHILIP  FRENEATT. 


The  Hyder  Ali  sailed  down  the  bay  April  8, 
1782,  and  met  the  Englishman  near  the  capes. 
By  skilful  manoeuvring,  Barney  was  able  to 


rake  his  antagonist;  then,  lashing  fast,  poured 
several  broadsides  in  rapid  succession  into  the 
enemy,  who  struck  their  colors  at  the  end  of  thirty 
minutes. 

SONG 

ON  CAPTAIN  BARNEY'S  VICTORY  OVER  THE 
SHIP  GENERAL  MONK 

[April  8,  1782J 

O'ER  the  waste  of  waters  cruising. 

Long  the  General  Monk  had  reigned; 
All  subduing,  all  reducing, 

None  her  lawless  rage  restrained: 
Many  a  brave  and  hearty  fellow 

Yielding  to  this  warlike  foe. 
When  her  guns  began  to  bellow 

Struck  his  humbled  colors  low. 

But  grown  bold  with  long  successes. 

Leaving  the  wide  watery  way, 
She,  a  stranger  to  distresses, 

Came  to  cruise  within  Cape  May: 
"Now  we  soon  (said  Captain  Rogers) 

Shall  their  men  of  commerce  meet; 
In  our  hold  we'll  have  them  lodgers, 

We  shall  capture  half  their  fleet. 

"Lo!  I  see  their  van  appearing — 

Back  our  topsails  to  the  mast  — 
They  toward  us  full  are  steering 

With  a  gentle  western  blast: 
I  've  a  list  of  all  their  cargoes, 

All  their  guns,  and  all  their  men: 
I  am  sure  these  modern  Argos 

Can't  escape  us  one  in  ten: 

"Yonder  comes  the  Charming  Sally 

Sailing  with  the  General  Greene  — 
First  we'll  fight  the  Hyder  Ali, 

Taking  her  is  taking  them: 
She  intends  to  give  us  battle, 

Bearing  down  with  all  her  sail  — 
Now,  boys,  let  our  cannon  rattle! 

To  take  her  we  cannot  fail. 

"Our  eighteen  guns,  each  a  nine-pounder, 

Soon  shall  terrify  this  foe; 
We  shall  maul  her,  we  shall  wound  her, 

Bringing  rebel  colors  low."  — 
While  he  thus  anticipated 

Conquests  that  he  could  not  gain, 
He  in  the  Cape  May  channel  waited 

For  the  ship  that  caused  his  pain. 


228 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Captain  Barney  then  preparing, 

Thus  addressed  his  gallant  crew  — 
"Now,  brave  lads,  be  bold  and  daring, 

Let  your  hearts  be  firm  and  true; 
This  is  a  proud  English  cruiser, 

Roving  up  and  down  the  main, 
We  must  fight  her  —  must  reduce  her, 

Though  our  decks  be  strewed  with  slain. 

"Let  who  will  be  the  survivor, 

We  must  conquer  or  must  die, 
We  must  take  her  up  the  river, 

Whate'er  comes  of  you  or  I : 
Though  she  shows  most  formidable 

With  her  eighteen  pointed  nines, 
And  her  quarters  clad  in  sable. 

Let  us  balk  her  proud  designs. 

"W'ith  four  nine-pounders,  and  twelve  sixes 

We  will  face  that  daring  band; 
Let  no  dangers  damp  your  courage, 

Nothing  can  the  brave  withstand. 
Fighting  for  your  country's  honor, 

Now  to  gallant  deeds  aspire; 
Helmsman,  bear  us  down  upon  her, 

Gunner,  give  the  word  to  fire!" 

Then  yardarm  and  yardarm  meeting, 

Strait  began  the  dismal  fray, 
Cannon  mouths,  each  other  greeting, 

Belched  their  smoky  flames  away: 
Soon  the  langrage,  grape  and  chain  shot, 

That  from  Barney's  cannons  flew, 
Swept  the  Monk,  and  cleared  each  round 
top, 

Killed  and  wounded  half  her  crew. 

Captain  Rogers  strove  to  rally 

But  they  from  their  quarters  fled, 
While  the  roaring  Hyder  AH 

Covered  o'er  his  decks  with  dead. 
Wrhen    from    their  tops   their    dead   men 
tumbled, 

And  the  streams  of  blood  did  flow, 
Then  their  proudest  hopes  were  humbled 

By  their  brave  inferior  foe. 

All  aghast,  and  all  confounded, 

They  beheld  their  champions  fall. 
And  their  captain,  sorely  wounded, 

Bade  them  quick  for  quarters  call. 
Then  the  Monk's  proud  flag  descended, 

And  her  cannon  ceased  to  roar; 
By  her  crew  no  more  defended, 

She  confessed  the  contest  o'er. 


Come,  brave  boys,  and  fill  your  glasses, 

You  have  humbled  one  proud  foe, 
No  brave  action  this  surpasses, 

Fame  shall  tell  the  nation  so  — 
Thus  be  Britain's  woes  completed, 

Thus  abridged  her  cruel  reign, 
Till  she  ever,  thus  defeated, 

Yields  the  sceptre  of  the  main. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


The  last  naval  action  of  the  war  occurred  De 
cember  19,  1782,  when  the  American  ship,  South 
Carolina,  forty  guns,  was  chased  and  captured, 
off  the  Delaware,  by  the  British  ships  Quebec, 
Diomede,  and  Astrea,  carrying  ninety-eight  guns. 
A  few  days  later  a  ballad  describing  the  affair 
appeared  in  the  loyalist  papers  as  a  letter  "from 
a  dejected  Jonathan,  a  prisoner  taken  in  the  South 
Carolina,  to  his  brother  Ned  at  Philadelphia." 


THE   SOUTH  CAROLINA 

[December  19,  1782] 

MY  dear  brother  Ned, 

We  are  knock'd  on  the  head, 
No  more  let  America  boast; 

We  may  all  go  to  bed, 

And  that's  enough  said, 
For  the  South  Carolina  we've  lost. 

The  pride  of  our  eyes, 

I  swear  is  a  prize, 
You  never  will  see  her  again, 

Unless  thro'  surprise, 

You  are  brought  where  she  lies, 
A  prisoner  from  the  false  main. 

Oh  Lord !  what  a  sight !  — 
I  was  struck  with  affright, 

When  the  Diomede's  shot  round  us  fell, 
I  feared  that  in  spite, 
They'd  have  slain  us  outright. 

And  sent  us  directly  to  h — 1. 

The  Quebec  did  fire, 

Or  I'm  a  curs'd  liar, 
And  the  Astrea  came  up  apace; 

We  could  not  retire 

From  the  confounded  fire, 
They  all  were  so  eager  in  chase. 

The  Diomede's  shot 
Was  damnation  hot, 
She  was  several  times  in  a  blaze; 


CLINTON'S  INVITATION   TO   THE   REFUGEES 


229 


It  was  not  my  lot 
To  go  then  to  pot, 
But  I  veow,  I  was  struck  with  amaze. 


And  Ned,  may  I  die, 

Or  be  pok'd  in  a  sty, 
If  ever  I  venture  again 

Where  bullets  do  fly, 

And  the  wounded  do  cry, 
Tormented  with  anguish  and  pain. 

The  Hope,  I  can  tell, 

And  the  brig  Constance  fell, 
I  swear,  and  I  veow,  in  our  sight; 

The  first  I  can  say, 

Was  taken  by  day, 
But  the  latter  was  taken  at  night. 

I  die  to  relate 

What  has  been  our  fate, 
How  sadly  our  navies  are  shrunk; 

The  pride  of  our  State 

Begins  to  abate, 

For  the  branches  are  lopp'd  from  the 
trunk. 


The  Congress  must  bend, 

We  shall  fall  in  the  end, 
For  the  curs'd  British  sarpents  are  tough ; 

But,  I  think  as  you  find, 

I  have  enough  penn'd 
Of  such  cursed,  such  vexatious  stuff. 

Yet  how  vexing  to  find 

W7e  are  left  all  behind, 
That  by  sad  disappointment  we're  cross  d; 

Ah,  fortune  unkind! 

Thou  afflicted'st  my  mind, 
When  the  South  Carolina  we  lost. 

Our  enemy  vile, 

Cunning  Digby  does  smile, 
Is  pleased  at  our  mischance; 

He  useth  each  wile 

Our  fleets  to  beguile, 
And  to  check  our  commerce  with  France. 

No  more  as  a  friend, 

Our  ships  to  defend, 
Of  South  Carolina  we  boast; 

As  a  foe  in  the  end, 

She  will  us  attend, 
For  the  South  Carolina  we've  lost. 


CHAPTER  IX 


NEW  YORK  AND  THE  "NEUTRAL  GROUND 


For  more  than  a  year  following  the  battle  of 
Monmouth,  Sir  Henry  Clinton  remained  cooped 
up  in  New  York,  while  Washington,  established  in 
camp  at  White  Plains,  kept  a  sharp  eye  upon  him. 
The  thirty  miles  between  their  lines,  embracing 
nearly  all  of  Westchester  County,  was  known  as 
the  "Neutral  Ground."  New  York  was  naturally 
crowded  with  Royalist  refugees,  whom  Clinton 
put  to  work  on  the  fortifications. 


SIR  HENRY  CLINTON'S  INVITA 
TION   TO   THE   REFUGEES 

[1779] 

COME,  gentlemen  Tories,  firm,  loyal,  and  true, 
Here  are  axes  and  shovels,  and  something 
to  do! 

For  the  sake  of  our  King, 

Come  labor  and  sing. 

You  left  all  you  had  for  his  honor  and  glory, 
And  he  will  remember  the  suffering  Tory. 


We  have,  it  is  true, 

Some  small  work  to  do; 
But  here's  for  your  pay,  twelve  coppers  a  day, 
And  never  regard  what  the  rebels  may  say, 
But  throw  off  your  jerkins  and  labor  away. 

To  raise  up  the  rampart,  and  pile  up  the 

wall, 

To  pull  down  old  houses  and  dig  the  canal, 
To  build  and  destroy, 
Be  this  your  employ, 

In  the  daytime  to  work  at  our  fortifications, 
And  steal  in  the  night  from  the  rebels  your 

rations. 

The  King  wants  your  aid, 
Not  empty  parade; 

Advance  to  your  places,  ye  men  of  long  faces, 
Nor  ponder  too  much  on  your  former  dis 
graces; 

This  year,  I  presume,  will  quite  alter  your 
cases. 


230 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Attend  at  the  call  of  the  fifer  and  drummer, 
The  French  and  the  rebels  are  coming  next 

summer. 

And  the  forts  we  must  build 
Though  the  Tories  are  killed. 
Take  courage,  my  jockies,  and  work  for  your 

King, 

For  if  you  are  taken,  no  doubt  you  will  swing. 
If  York  we  can  hold, 
I'll  have  you  enroll'd; 
And  after  you're  dead,  your  names  shall  be 

read, 
As  who  for  their  monarch  both  labor'd  and 

bled, 

And  ventur'd  their  necks  for  their  beef  and 
their  bread. 

T  is  an  hour  to  serve  the  bravest  of  nations, 
And  be  left  to  be  hanged  in  their  capitulations. 

Then  scour  up  your  mortars, 

And  stand  to  your  quarters, 
T  is  nonsense  for  Tories  in  battle  to  run, 
They  never  need  fear  sword,  halberd,  or  gun ; 

Their  hearts  should  not  fail  'em, 

No  balls  will  assail  'em. 
Forget  your  disgraces,  and  shorten  your  faces, 
For  't  is  true  as  the  gospel,  believe  it  or  not, 
Who  are  born  to  be  hang'd,  will  never  be  shot. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


On  the  last  day  of  May,  Clinton  had  succeeded 
in  capturing  the  fortress  at  Stony  Point,  on  the 
Hudson,  had  thrown  a  garrison  of  six  hundred 
men  into  it,  and  added  two  lines  of  fortifications, 
rendering  it  almost  impregnable.  Washington, 
nevertheless,  determined  to  recapture  it,  and  in 
trusted  the  task  to  General  Anthony  Wayne,  giv 
ing  him  twelve  hundred  men  for  the  purpose. 
At  midnight  of  July  15,  the  Americans  crossed 
the  swamp  which  divided  the  fort  from  the  main 
land,  reached  the  outworks  before  they  were  dis 
covered,  and  carried  the  fort  by  storm. 

THE  STORMING  OF  STONY  POINT 

[July  16,  1779] 

HIGHLANDS  of  Hudson!  ye  saw  them  pass, 
Night  on  the  stars  of  their  battle-flag, 

Threading  the  maze  of  the  dark  morass 
Under  the  frown  of  the  Thunder  Crag; 

Flower  and  pride  of  the  Light  Armed  Corps, 
Trim  in  their  trappings  of  buff  and  blue, 

Silent,  they  skirted  the  rugged  shore, 
Grim  in  the  promise  of  work  to  do. 


"Cross  ye  the  ford  to  the  moated  rock! 

Let  not  a  whisper  your  march  betray! 
Out  with  the  flint  from  the  musket  lock ! 

Now!  let  the  bayonet  find  the  way!" 

"Halt!"  rang  the  sentinel's  challenge  clear. 

Swift  came  the  shot  of  the  waking  foe. 
Bright  flashed  the  axe  of  the  Pioneer 

Smashing  the  abatis,  blow  on  blow. 

Little  they  tarried  for  British  might! 

Lightly  they  recked  of  the  Tory  jeers ! 
Laughing,  they  swarmed  to  the  craggy  height. 

Steel  to  the  steel  of  the  Grenadiers ! 

Storm   King  and  Dunderberg!  wake  once 

more 

Sentinel  giants  of  Freedom's  throne, 
Massive  and  proud !  to  the  Eastern  shore 
Bellow  the  watchword:  "The  fort's  our 
own!" 

Echo  our  cheers  for  the  Men  of  old ! 

Shout  for  the  Hero  who  led  his  band 
Braving  the  death  that  his  heart  foretold 

Over  the  parapet,  "spear  in  hand!" 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 


WAYNE   AT   STONY   POINT 

[July  16,  1779] 

T  WAS  the  heart  of  the  murky  night,  and  the 

lowest  ebb  of  the  tide, 
Silence  lay  on  the  land,  and  sleep  on  the  waters 

wide, 
Save  for  the  sentry's  tramp,  or  the  note  of  a 

lone  night  bird, 
Or  the  sough  of  the  haunted  pines  as  the 

south  wind  softly  stirred. 
Gloom  above  and  around,  and  the  brooding 

spirit  of  rest; 
Only  a  single  star  over  Dunderberg's  lofty 

crest. 

Through  the  drench  of  ooze  and  slime  at  the 

marge  of  the  river  fen 
File  upon  file  slips  by.   See!  are  they  ghosts 

or  men  ? 
Fast  do  they  forward  press,  on  by  a  track 

unbarred ; 
Now  is  the  causeway  won,  now  have  they 

throttled  the  guard; 


AARON   BURR'S   WOOING 


231 


Now  have  they  parted  line  to  storm  with  a 

rush  on  the  height, 
Some  by  a  path  to  the  left,  some  by  a  path  to 

the  right. 

Hark,  —  the  peal  of  a  gun!  and  the  drum 
mer's  rude  alarms ! 

Hinging  down  from  the  height  there  soundeth 
the  cry.  To  arms  ! 

Thundering  down  from  the  height  there  com- 
eth  the  cannon's  blare; 

Flash  upon  blinding  flash  lightens  the  livid 
air: 

Look !  do  the  stormers  quail  ?  Nay,  for  their 
feet  are  set 

Now  at  the  bastion's  base,  now  on  the  para 
pet1 

Urging  the  vanguard  on  prone  doth  the  leader 

fall. 
Smitten   sudden    and   sore   by   a   foeman's 

musket-ball ; 
Waver  the  charging  lines;  swiftly  they  spring 

to  his  side,  — 
Madcap  Anthony  Wayne,  the  patriot  army's 

pride ! 
Forward,  my  braves  I  he  cries,  and  the  heroes 

hearten  again; 
Bear  me  into  the  fort,  I'll  die  at  the  head  of 

my  men  ! 

Die !  —  did  he  die  that  night,  felled  in  his 
lusty  prime? 

Answer  many  a  field  in  the  stormy  after- 
time! 

Still  did  his  prowess  shine,  still  did  his  cour 
age  soar, 

From  the  Hudson's  rocky  steep  to  the  James's 
level  shore; 

But  never  on  Fame's  fair  scroll  did  he  blazon 
a  deed  more  bright 

Than  his  charge  on  Stony  Point  in  the  heart 
of  the  murky  night. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


The  raids  over  the  "  Neutral  Ground  "  continued, 
and  among  the  boldest  of  the  leaders  on  the  Ameri 
can  side  was  Colonel  Aaron  Burr.  But  not  all  of 
his  nights  were  occupied  in  warlike  expeditions. 
Fifteen  miles  away,  across  the  Hudson,  dwelt  the 
charming  Widow  Prevost,  whom  he  afterwards 
married,  and  on  at  least  two  occasions,  Burr,  with 
a  boldness  to  touch  the  heart  of  any  woman,  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  across  to  spend  a  few  hours 
with  her. 


AARON   BURR'S  WOOING 

FROM  the  commandant's  quarters  on  West- 

chester  height 

The  blue  hills  of  Ramapo  lie  in  full  sight; 
On  their  slope  gleam  the  gables  that  shield 

his  heart's  queen, 
But  the  redcoats  are  wary  —  the  Hudson's 

between. 
Through  the  camp  runs  a  jest:  "There's  no 

moon  —  't  will  be  dark; 
'Tis  odds  little  Aaron  will  go  on  a  spark!" 
And  the  toast  of  the  troopers  is:  "Pickets,  lie 

low, 
And  good  luck  to  the  colonel  and  Widow 

Prevost!" 

Eight  miles  to  the  river  he  gallops  his  steed. 

Lays  him  bound  in  the  barge,  bids  his  escort 
make  speed. 

Loose  their  swords,  sit  athwart,  through  the 
fleet  reach  yon  shore. 

Not  a  word  —  not  a  plash  of  the  thick- 
muffled  oar! 

Once  across,  once  again  in  the  seat  and 
away  — 

Five  leagues  are  soon  over  when  love  has  the 
say; 

And  "Old  Put"  and  his  rider  a  bridle-path 
know 

To  the  Hermitage  manor  of  Madame  Prevost. 

Lightly  done!  but  he  halts  in  the  grove's 

deepest  glade. 
Ties  his  horse  to  a  birch,  trims  his  cue,  slings 

his  blade. 
Wipes  the  dust  and  the  dew  from  his  smooth, 

handsome  face. 
With  the  'kerchief  she  broidered  and  bordered 

in  lace; 
Then  slips  through  the  box-rows  and  taps  at 

the  hall. 
Sees  the  glint  of  a  waxlight,  a  hand  white  and 

small. 
And  the  door  is  unbarred  by  herself  all 

aglow  — 
Half  in  smiles,   half  in  tears  —  Theodosia 

Prevost. 

Alack    for    the    soldier    that's   buried  and 

gone! 
What's  a  volley  above  him,  a  wreath  on  his 

stone, 
Compared  with  sweet  life  and  a  wife  for  one's 

view 


232 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Like  this  dame,  ripe  and  warm  in  her  India 

fichu? 
She  chides  her  bold  lover,  yet  holds  him  more 

dear, 
For  the  daring  that  brings  him  a  night-rider 

here; 
British  gallants  by  day  through  her  doors 

come  and  go, 
But  a  Yankee's  the  winner  of  Theo.  Prevost. 

Where's  the  widow  or  maid  with  a  mouth  to 

be  kist. 
When  Burr  comes  a-wooing,  that  long  would 

resist  ? 
Lights  and  wine  on  the  beaufet,  the  shutters 

all  fast, 
And  "Old  Put"  stamps  in  vain  till  an  hour 

has  flown  past  — 
But  an  hour,  for  eight  leagues  must  be  covered 

ere  day; 
Laughs  Aaron,  "  Let  Washington  frown  as 

he  may, 
When  he  hears  of  me  next,  in  a  raid  on  the 

foe, 
He  '11  forgive  this  night's  tryst  with  the  Widow 

Prevost ! " 

EDMUND  CLAKENCE  STEDMAN. 


In  June,  1780,  Clinton  made  a  desperate  at 
tempt  to  capture  the  American  stores  at  Morris- 
town,  N.  J.  At  dawn  of  the  23d,  he  advanced 
in  great  force  upon  Springfield,  where  General 
Greene  was  stationed.  Overwhelming  numbers 
compelled  the  Americans  to  fall  back  to  a  strong 
position,  which  the  enemy  dared  not  attack,  and 
after  setting  fire  to  the  village,  Clinton  retreated 
toward  Elizabethtown. 


THE  MODERN  JONAS 

[June  23,  1780] 

You  know  there  goes  a  tale, 
How  Jonas  went  on  board  a  whale, 
Once,  for  a  frolic; 
And  how  the  whale 
Set  sail 

And  got  the  cholic; 
And,  after  a  great  splutter, 

Spew'd  him  up  upon  the  coast, 
Just  like  woodcock  on  a  toast, 
With  trail  and  butter. 

There  al-o  goes  a  pke, 

How  Clinton  went  on  board  the  Duke 


Count  Rochambeau  to  fight; 
As  he  did  n't  fail 
To  set  sail 
The  first  fair  gale, 
For  once  we  thought  him  right; 
But,  after  a  great  clutter, 

He  turn'd  back  along  the  coast. 
And  left  the  French  to  make  their  boast, 
And  Englishmen  to  mutter. 

Just  so,  not  long  before, 

Old  Kriyp, 

And  old  Clip 
Went  to  the  Jersey  shore, 
The  rebel  rogues  to  beat; 

But,  at  Yankee  farms, 

They  took  alarms, 

At  little  harms, 
And  quickly  did  retreat. 

Then  after  two  days'  wonder. 
March'd  boldly  up  to  Springfield  town, 
And  swore  they'd  knock  the  rebels  down. 

But  as  their  foes 

Gave  them  some  blows, 

They,  like  the  wind, 

Soon  changed  their  mind. 

And,  in  a  crack. 

Returned  back, 
From  not  one  third  their  number. 


Un  June  o,  while  on  tneir  way  to  Spnngneld, 
the  British  passed  through  a  village  called  Con 
necticut  Farms.  They  set  it  on  fire,  destroying 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

[June  23,  1780] 

HERE'S  the  spot.  Look  around  you.   Above 

on  the  height 
Lay  the  Hessians  encamped.  By  that  church 

on  the  right 
Stood  the  gaunt  Jersey  farmers.    And  here 

ran  a  wall,  — 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you  '11  turn  up  a 

ball. 
Nothing  more.    Grasses  spring,  waters  run. 

flowers  blow, 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years 

ago. 


THE   COW-CHACE 


233 


Nothing  more,  did  I  say  ?  Stay  one  moment ; 

you've  heard 
Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached 

the  Word 
Down  at  Springfield  ?   What,  No  ?    Come  — 

that's  bad;  why  he  had 
All  the  Jerseys  aflame.   And  they  gave  him 

the  name 
Of  the  "rebel  high-priest."  He  stuck  in  their 

gorge, 
For  he  loved  the  Lord  God,  —  and  he  hated 

King  George! 

He  had  cause,  you  might  say!    When  the 

Hessians  that  day 
Marched  up  with  Knyphausen  they  stopped 

on  their  way 
At  the  "  Farms,"  where  his  wife,  with  a  child 

in  her  arms, 
Sat  alone  in  the  house.    How  it  happened 

none  knew 

But  God  —  and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot !  Enough !  —  there  she  lay, 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband, 


away 


Did  he  preach  —  did  he  pray  ?    Think  of 

him  as  you  stand 
By  the  old  church  to-day;  —  think  of  him 

and  his  band 
Of  militant  plough  boys!  See  the  smoke  and 

the  heat 
Of  that  reckless  advance,  —  of  that  straggling 

retreat ! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in 

your  view,  — 
And  what  could  you,  what  should  you,  what 

would  you  do  ? 

Why,  just  what  he  did !  They  were  left  in  the 

lurch 
For  the  want  of  more  jvadding.  He  ran  to  the 

church, 
Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed 

out  in  the  road 
W:ith  his  arms  full  of  hymn-books  and  threw 

down  his  load 
At  their  feet!   Then  above  all  the  shouting 

and  shots, 
Rang  his  voice,  —  "  Put  Watts  into  'em,  — 

Boys,  give  'em  Watts!" 

And  they  did.   That  is  all.    Grasses  spring, 

flowers  blow 
Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 


You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a 

ball,— 

But  not  always  a  hero  like  this, — and  that 's  all. 
BRET  HARTE. 


Among  the  posts  occupied  by  the  British  on  the 
Hudson  was  a  blockhouse  just  above  Bergen 
Neck.  Pastured  on  the  neck  was  a  large  number 
of  cattle  and  horses,  and  on  July  21,  1780,  General 
Wayne  was  sent,  with  some  Pennsylvania  and 
Maryland  troops,  to  storm  this  blockhouse  and 
drive  the  stock  within  the  American  lines.  The 
attack  on  the  blockhouse  was  repulsed  by  the 
British,  the  Americans  losing  heavily.  It  was  this 
affair  which  was  celebrated  by  Major  John  Antlrt- 
in  the  verses  called  "The  Cow-Chace." 

THE  COW-CHACE 

[July  21,  1780] 
CANTO  I 

To  drive  the  kine  one  summer's  morn, 

The  Tanner  took  his  way; 
The  calf  shall  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  jumbling  of  that  day. 

And  Wayne  descending  steers  shall  know, 

And  tauntingly  deride; 
And  call  to  mind  in  every  low, 

The  tanning  of  his  hide. 

Yet  Bergen  cows  still  ruminate, 

Unconscious  in  the  stall, 
What  mighty  means  were  used  to  get, 

And  loose  them  after  all. 

For  many  heroes  bold  and  brave. 

From  Newbridge  and  Tappan, 
And  those  that  drink  Passaic's  wave, 

And  those  who  eat  supawn; 

And  sons  of  distant  Delaware, 

And  still  remoter  Shannon, 
And  Major  Lee  with  horses  rare, 

And  Proctor  with  his  cannon. 

All  wond'rous  proud  in  arms  they  came, 

What  hero  could  refuse 
To  tread  the  rugged  path  to  fame, 

Who  had  a  pair  of  shoes! 

At  six,  the  host  with  sweating  buff, 

Arrived  at  Freedom's  pole; 
When  Wayne,  who  thought  he  'd  time  enough, 

Thus  speechified  the  whole: 


234 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"O  ye,  whom  glory  doth  unite, 

Who  Freedom's  cause  espouse; 
Whether  the  wing  that's  doom'd  to  fight, 
Or  that  to  drive  the  cows, 

"Ere  yet  you  tempt  your  further  way, 

Or  into  action  come, 
Hear,  soldiers,  what  I  have  to  say, 
And  take  a  pint  of  rum. 

"  Intern p'rate  valor  then  will  string 

Each  nervous  arm  the  better; 
So  all  the  land  shall  I  O  sing, 
And  read  the  Gen'ral's  letter. 

"  Know  that  some  paltry  refugees, 

Whom  I've  a  mind  to  fright, 

Are  playing  h — 1  amongst  the  trees 

That  grow  on  yonder  height. 

"Their  fort  and  blockhouses  we'll  level, 

And  deal  a  horrid  slaughter; 
We'll  drive  the  scoundrels  to  the  devil, 
And  ravish  wife  and  daughter. 

"I,  under  cover  of  th'  attack, 

Whilst  you  are  all  at  blows. 
From  English  neighb'rhood  and  Nyack, 
Will  drive  away  the  cows; 

"For  well  you  know  the  latter  is 

The  serious  operation. 
And  fighting  with  the  refugees 
Is  only  demonstration." 

His  daring  words,  from  all  the  crowd, 
Such  great  applause  did  gain, 

That  every  man  declar'd  aloud 
For  serious  work  with  Wayne. 

Then  from  the  cask  of  rum  once  more, 

They  took  a  heady  gill; 
When  one  and  all,  they  loudly  swore, 

They'd  fight  upon  the  hill. 

But  here  —  the  Muse  hath  not  a  strain 

Befitting  such  great  deeds; 
Huzza !  they  cried,  huzza !  for  Wayne, 

And  shouting,  —  did  their  needs. 

CANTO  II 

Near  his  meridian  pomp,  the  sun 
Had  journey 'd  from  th'  horizon; 

When  fierce  the  dusky  tribe  mov'd  on, 
Of  heroes  drunk  as  pison. 


The  sounds  confus'd  of  boasting  oaths, 

Reechoed  through  the  wood; 
Some  vow'd  to  sleep  in  dead  men's  clothes, 

And  some  to  swim  in  blood. 

At  Irving's  nod  't  was  fine  to  see 

The  left  prepare  to  fight; 
The  while,  the  drovers,  Wayne  and  Lee, 

Drew  oft'  upon  the  right. 

Which  Irving  't  was,  fame  don't  relate, 
Nor  can  the  Muse  assist  her; 

Whether  't  was  he  that  cocks  a  hat, 
Or  he  that  gives  a  clyster. 

For  greatly  one  was  signaliz'd, 
That  fought  on  Chestnut  Hill ; 

And  Canada  immortaliz'd 
The  vender  of  the  pill. 

Yet  their  attendance  upon  Proctor, 
They  both  might  have  to  boast  of; 

For  there  was  business  for  the  doctor, 
And  hats  to  be  disposed  of. 

Let  none  uncandidly  infer, 

That  Stirling  wanted  spunk; 
The  self-made  peer  had  sure  been  there, 

But  that  the  peer  was  drunk. 

But  turn  we  to  the  Hudson's  banks, 
Where  stood  the  modest  train, 

With  purpose  firm,  tho'  slender  ranks, 
Nor  car'd  a  pin  for  Wayne. 

For  them  the  unrelenting  hand 

Of  rebel  fury  drove, 
And  tore  from  ev'ry  genial  band 

Of  friendship  and  of  love. 

And  some  within  the  dungeon's  gloom, 

By  mock  tribunals  laid, 
Had  waited  long  a  cruel  doom 

Impending  o'er  each  head. 

Here  one  bewails  a  brother's  fate, 

There  one  a  sire  demands. 
Cut  off,  alas!  before  their  date, 

By  ignominious  hands. 

And  silver'd  grandsires  here  appear'd 

In  deep  distress  serene, 
Of  reverent  manners  that  declar'd 

The  better  days  they  'd  seen. 


THE   COW-CHACE 


235 


Oh,  curs'd  rebellion,  these  are  thine, 

Thine  all  these  tales  of  woe; 
Shall  at  thy  dire  insatiate  shrine 

Blood  never  cease  to  flow? 

And  now  the  foe  began  to  lead 

His  forces  to  th'  attack; 
Balls  whistling  unto  balls  succeed, 

And  make  the  blockhouse  crack. 

No  shot  could  pass,  if  you  will  take 

The  Gen'ral's  word  for  true; 
But  't  is  a  d ble  mistake, 

For  ev'ry  shot  went  thro'. 

The  firmer  as  the  rebels  press'd, 

The  loyal  heroes  stand; 
Virtue  had  nerv'd  each  honest  breast, 

And  industry  each  hand. 

In  valor's  frenzy,  Hamilton 

Rode  like  a  soldier  big. 
And  Secretary  Harrison, 

With  pen  stuck  in  his  wig. 

But  lest  their  chieftain,  Washington, 
Should  mourn  them  in  the  mumps, 

The  fate  of  Withrington  to  shun, 
They  fought  behind  the  stumps. 

But  ah,  Thaddeus  Posset,  why 

Should  thy  poor  soul  elope  ? 
And  why  should  Titus  Hooper  die, 

Ay,  die  —  without  a  rope  ? 

Apostate  Murphy,  thou  to  whom 

Fair  Shela  ne'er  was  cruel, 
In  death  shall  hear  her  mourn  thy  doom, 

"Och!  would  ye  die,  my  jewel?" 

Thee,  Nathan  Pumpkin,  I  lament. 

Of  melancholy  fate; 
The  gray  goose  stolen  as  he  went, 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

Now,  as  the  fight  was  further  fought, 

And  balls  began  to  thicken, 
The  fray  assum'd,  the  gen'rals  thought, 

The  color  of  a  lickin'. 

Yet  undismay'd  the  chiefs  command, 

And  to  redeem  the  day, 
Cry,  SOLDIERS,  CHARGE!  they  hear,  they 
stand, 

They  turn  and  run  away. 


CANTO  III 

Not  all  delights  the  bloody  spear, 

Or  horrid  din  of  battle; 
There  are,  I'm  sure,  who'd  like  to  hear 

A  word  about  the  cattle. 

The  chief  whom  we  beheld  of  late. 

Near  Schralenberg  haranging, 
At  Yan  Van  Poop's  unconscious  sat 

Of  Irving's  hearty  banging. 

Whilst  valiant  Lee,  with  courage  wild, 

Most  bravely  did  oppose 
The  tears  of  woman  and  of  child. 

Who  begg'd  he  'd  leave  the  cows. 

But  Wayne,  of  sympathizing  heart, 

Required  a  relief, 
Not  all  the  blessings  could  impart 

Of  battle  or  of  beef. 

For  now  a  prey  to  female  charms, 

His  soul  took  more  delight  in 
A  lovely  hamadryad's  arms, 

Than  cow-driving  or  fighting. 

A  nymph  the  refugees  had  drove 

Far  from  her  native  tree. 
Just  happen'd  to  be  on  the  move, 

When  up  came  Wayne  and  Lee. 

She,  in  Mad  Anthony's  fierce  eye, 

The  hero  saw  portray 'd. 
And  all  in  tears  she  took  him  by  — 

The  bridle  of  his  jade. 

"Hear,"  said  the  nymph,  "oh,  great  com1 
mander ! 

No  human  lamentations; 
The  trees  you  see  them  cutting  yonder, 

Are  all  my  near  relations. 

"And  I,  forlorn!  implore  thine  aid, 

To  free  the  sacred  grove; 
So  shall  thy  prowess  be  repaid 

With  an  immortal's  love." 

Now  some,  to  prove  she  was  a  goddess, 

Said  this  enchanting  fair 
Had  late  retired  from  the  Bodies 

In  all  the  pomp  of  war. 

The  drums  and  merry  fifes  had  play'd 
To  honor  her  retreat, 


236 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  Cunningham  himself  convey'd 
The  lady  through  the  street. 

Great  Wayne,  by  soft  compassion  sway'd, 

To  no  inquiry  stoops, 
But  takes  the  fair  afflicted  maid 

Right  into  Yan  Van  Poop's. 

So  Roman  Anthony,  they  say, 
Disgraced  th'  imperial  banner, 

And  for  a  gypsy  lost  a  day, 
Like  Anthony  the  tanner. 

The  hamadryad  had  but  half 
Receiv'd  redress  from  Wayne, 

When  drums  and  colors,  cow  and  calf, 
Came  down  the  road  amain. 

And  in  a  cloud  of  dust  was  seen 
The  sheep,  the  horse,  the  goat, 

The  gentle  heifer,  ass  obscene, 
The  yearling  and  the  shoat. 

And  pack-horses  with  fowls  came  by, 

Be-feather'd  on  each  side, 
Like  Pegasus,  the  horse  that  I 

And  other  poets  ride. 

Sublime  upon  his  stirrups  rose 

The  mighty  Lee  behind, 
And  drove  the  terror-smitten  cows 

Like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

But  sudden  see  the  woods  above 

Pour  down  another  corps, 
All  helter-skelter  in  a  drove, 

Like  that  I  sung  before. 

Irving  and  terror  in  the  van, 

Came  flying  all  abroad; 
And  cannon,  colors,  horse,  and  man, 

Ran  tumbling  to  the  road. 

Still  as  he  fled,  't  was  Irving's  cry, 

And  his  example  too, 
"  Run  on,  my  merry  men  —  for  why  ? 

The  shot  will  not  go  thro'." 

As  when  two  kennels  in  the  street, 

Swell'd  with  a  recent  rain, 
In  gushing  streams  together  meet 

And  seek  the  neighboring  drain; 

So  met  these  dung-born  tribes  in  one, 
As  swift  in  their  career, 


And  so  to  Newbridge  they  ran  on  — 
But  all  the  cows  got  clear. 

Poor  Parson  Caldwell,  all  in  wonder, 

Saw  the  returning  train, 
And  mourn 'd  to  Wayne  the  lack  of  plunder 

For  them  to  steal  again. 

For  't  was  his  right  to  steal  the  spoil,  and 
To  share  with  each  commander, 

As  he  had  done  at  Staten  Island 
With  frost-bit  Alexander. 

In  his  dismay,  the  frantic  priest 

Began  to  grow  prophetic; 
You'd  swore,  to  see  his  laboring  breast. 

He'd  taken  an  emetic. 

'  I  view  a  future  day,"  said  he, 
"Brighter  than  this  dark  day  is; 

And  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see, 
Ha!  ha!  one  pretty  Marquis! 

"And  he  shall  come  to  Paulus  Hook, 
And  great  achievements  think  on; 

And  make  a  bow  and  take  a  look, 
Like  Satan  over  Lincoln. 

"And  every  one  around  shall  glory 

To  see  the  Frenchman  caper; 
And  pretty  Susan  tell  the  story 

In  the  next  Chatham  paper." 

This  solemn  prophecy,  of  course, 

Gave  all  much  consolation, 
Except  to  Wayne,  who  lost  his  horse 

Upon  that  great  occasion. 

His  horse  that  carried  all  his  prog, 

His  military  speeches, 
His  corn-stalk  whiskey  for  his  grog, 

Blue  stockings  and  brown  breeches. 

And  now  I  've  clos'd  my  epic  strain, 

I  tremble  as  I  show  it, 
Lest  this  same  warrior-drover,  Wayne, 

Should  ever  catch  the  poet. 

JOHN  ANDRE. 

The  last  stanza  was  singularly  prophetic.  The 
Americans  relied  for  the  defence  of  the  Hudson 
upon  the  impregnable  position  at  West  Point,  to 
the  command  of  which  Benedict  Arnold  had  been 
appointed  in  July,  1780.  Arnold,  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  officers  in  the  army,  had  been  treated 
with  great  injustice  by  Congress,  and  to  revenge 


BRAVE   PAULDING  AND   THE   SPY 


237 


hhnself  determined  to  betray  West  Point  into  the 
hands  of  the  British.  He  therefore  opened  com 
munication  with  Clinton,  and  on  September  21 
Major  Andrd  was  sent  to  confer  with  the  traitor. 
While  returning  to  the  British  lines  the  following 
night,  he  was  captured  by  an  American  outpost, 
who  searched  him,  discovered  the  papers  giving 
the  details  of  the  plot,  and  took  him  back  to  the 
American  lines,  refusing  his  offers  of  reward  for 
his  release. 

BRAVE  PAULDING  AND  THE  SPY 

[September  23,  1780] 

COME  all  you  brave  Americans, 

And  unto  me  give  ear, 
And  I'll  sing  you  a  ditty 

That  will  your  spirits  cheer, 
Concerning  a  young  gentleman 

Whose  age  was  twenty-two; 
He  fought  for  North  America, 

His  heart  was  just  and  true. 

They  took  him  from  his  dwelling, 

And  they  did  him  confine, 
They  cast  him  into  prison, 

And  kept  him  there  a  time. 
But  he  with  resolution 

Resolv'd  not  long  to  stay; 
He  set  himself  at  liberty, 

And  soon  he  ran  away. 

He  with  a  scouting-party 

Went  down  to  Tarry  town, 
Where  he  met  a  British  officer, 

A  man  of  high  renown, 
Who  says  unto  these  gentlemen, 

"  You  're  of  the  British  cheer, 
I  trust  that  you  can  tell  me 

If  there 's  any  danger  near  ?  " 

Then  up  stept  this  young  hero, 
John  Paulding  was  his  name, 
"Sir,  tell  us  where  you're  going, 

And,  also,  whence  you  came?" 
"I  bear  the  British  flag,  sir; 

I've  a  pass  to  go  this  way, 
I'm  on  an  expedition, 
And  have  no  time  to  stay." 

Then  round  him  came  this  company, 

And  bid  him  to  dismount; 
"Come,  tell  us  where  you're  going, 

Give  us  a  strict  account; 
For  we  are  now  resolved 

That  you  shall  ne'er  pass  by." 


Upon  examination 
They  found  he  was  a  spy. 

He  begged  for  his  liberty, 

He  plead  for  his  discharge, 
And  oftentimes  he  told  them, 

If  they'd  set  him  at  large, 
'Here's  all  the  gold  and  silver 

I  have  laid  up  in  store, 
But  when  I  reach  the  city, 

I'll  give  you  ten  times  more." 

'I  scorn  the  gold  and  silver 

You  have  laid  up  in  store, 
And  when  you  get  to  New  York, 

You  need  not  send  us  more; 
But  you  may  take  your  sword  in  hand 

To  gain  your  liberty, 
And  if  that  you  do  conquer  me, 

Oh,  then  you  shall  be  free." 

'The  time  it  is  improper 

Our  valor  for  to  try, 
For  if  we  take  our  swords  in  hand, 

Then  one  of  us  must  die; 
I  am  a  man  of  honor, 

With  courage  true  and  bold, 
And  I  fear  not  the  man  of  clay, 

Although  he's  cloth 'd  in  gold." 

He  saw  that  his  conspiracy 

Would  soon  be  brought  to  light; 
He  begg'd  for  pen  and  paper, 

And  asked  leave  to  write 
A  line  to  General  Arnold, 

To  let  him  know  his  "fate, 
And  beg  for  his  assistance; 

But  now  it  was  too  late. 

When  the  news  it  came  to  Arnold, 

It  put  him  in  a  fret; 
He  walk'd  the  room  in  trouble, 

Till  tears  his  cheek  did  wet; 
The  story  soon  went  through  the  camp, 

And  also  through  the  fort; 
And  he  called  for  the  Vulture 

And  sailed  for  New  York. 

Now  Arnold  to  New  York  has  gone, 

A-fighting  for  his  king, 
And  left  poor  Major  Andre 

On  the  gallows  for  to  swing; 
When  he  was  executed, 

He  look'd  both  meek  and  mild; 


238 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


He  look'd  upon  the  people, 
And  pleasantly  he  smil'd. 

It  mov'd  each  eye  with  pity, 

Caus'd  every  heart  to  bleed, 
And  every  one  wished  him  releas'd 

And  Arnold  in  his  stead. 
He  was  a  man  of  honor, 

In  Britain  he  was  born; 
To  die  upon  the  gallows 

Most  highly  he  did  scorn. 

A  bumper  to  John  Paulding! 

Now  let  your  voices  sound, 
Fill  up  your  flowing  glasses, 

And  drink  his  health  around; 
Also  to  those  young  gentlemen 

Who  bore  him  company; 
Success  to  North  America, 

Ye  sons  of  liberty! 


Arnold  learned  of  Andre's  capture  just  in  time 
(o  escape  to  a  British  ship  in  the  river,  and  Wash 
ington,  arriving  soon  after,  prevented  his  treach 
erous  disposition  of  the  American  forces  from 
being  taken  advantage  of  by  the  enemy. 


ARNOLD 

THE  VILE  TRAITOR 
[September  25.  1780] 

ARNOLD!  the  name,  as  heretofore. 
Shall  now  be  Benedict  no  more: 
Since,  instigated  by  the  devil, 
Thy  ways  are  turned  from  good  to  evil. 

'T  is  fit  we  brand  thee  with  a  name 
To  suit  thy  infamy  and  shame; 
And,  since  of  treason  thou  'rt  convicted, 
Thy  name  shall  be  maledicted. 
Unless,  by  way  of  contradiction, 
We  style  thee  Britain's  Benediction. 
Such  blessings  she,  with  lavish  hand, 
Confers  on  this  devoted  land. 

For  instance,  only  let  us  mention 
Some  proof  of  her  benign  intention ; 
The  slaves  she  sends  us  o'er  the  deep, 
And  bribes  to  cut  our  throats  in  sleep. 
To  take  our  lives  and  scalps  away, 
The  savage  Indians  keeps  in  pay, 
And  Tories  worse,  by  half,  than  they. 


Then,  in  this  class  of  Britain's  heroes,  — 
The  Tories,  savage  Indians,  negroes,  — 
Recorded  Arnold's  name  shall  stand. 
While  Freedom's  blessings  crown  our  land, 
And  odious  for  the  blackest  crimes, 
Arnold  shall  stink  to  latest  times. 


EPIGRAM 

Quoth  Satan  to  Arnold:  "My  worthy  good 

fellow, 

I  love  you  much  better  than  ever  I  did ; 
You  live  like  a  prince,  with  Hal  may  get  mel 
low.  — 
But  mind  that  you  both  do  just  what  I  bid." 

Quoth  Arnold  to  Satan:  "My  friend,  do  not 

doubt  me! 

I  will  strictly  adhere  to  all  your  great  views ; 
To  you  I'm  devoted,  with  all  things  about 

me  — 
You'll  permit  me,  I  hope,  to  die  in  my 

shoes." 
New  Jersey  Gazette,  November  1,  1780. 

Andre1  was  tried  by  court-martial  Sept  ember  29, 
and  condemned  to  be  hanged  as  a  spy.  Clinton, 
with  whom  Andre"  was  a  warm  personal  favorite, 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  save  him,  but  in  vain; 
and  a  petition  from  Andr£  himself  that  he  might 
be  shot  instead  of  hanged  was  also  rejected. 

ANDRE'S   REQUEST   TO   WASH 
INGTON 

[October  1,  1780] 

IT  is  not  the  fear  of  death 

That  damps  my  brow, 
It  is  not  for  another  breath 

I  ask  thee  now; 
I  can  die  with  a  lip  unstirr'd 

And  a  quiet  heart  — 
Let  but  this  prayer  be  heard 

Ere  I  depart. 

I  can  give  up  my  mother's  look  — 

My  sister's  kiss; 
I  can  think  of  love  —  yet  brook 

A  death  like  this! 
I  can  give  up  the  young  fame 

I  burn'd  to  win  — 
All  —  but  the  spotless  name 

I  glory  in. 


SERGEANT  CHAMPE 


239 


Thine  is  the  power  to  give, 

Thine  to  deny, 
Joy  for  the  hour  I  live  — 

Calmness  to  die. 
By  all  the  brave  should  cherish, 

By  my  dying  breath, 
I  ask  that  I  may  perish 

By  a  soldier's  death ! 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 


Accordingly,  on  Monday,  October  2,  1780,  the 
adjutant-general  of  the  British  army  was  led  to 
the  gallows,  and  shared  the  fate  which  had  be 
fallen  Nathan  Hale  four  years  before. 

ANDRE 

THIS  is  the  place  where  Andre  met  that  death 
Whose  infamy  was  keenest  of  its  throes, 
And  in  this  place  of  bravely  yielded  breath 
His  ashes  found  a  fifty  years'  repose; 

And  then,  at  last,  a  transatlantic  grave, 
With  those  who  have  been  kings  in  blood  or 

fame, 

As  Honor  here  some  compensation  gave 
For  that  once  forfeit  to  a  hero's  name. 

But  whether  in  the  Abbey's  glory  laid, 
Or  on  so  fair  but  fatal  Tappan's  shore. 
Still  at  his  grave  have  noble  hearts  betrayed 
The  loving  pity  and  regret  they  bore. 

In  view  of  all  he  lost,  —  his  youth,  his  love, 
And  possibilities  that  wait  the  brave, 
Inward    and   outward    bound,    dim    visions 

move 
Like  passing  sails  upon  the  Hudson's  wave. 

The  country's  Father!  how  do  we  revere 
His  justice,  —  Brutus-like  in  its  decree,  — 
With  Andre-sparing  mercy,  still  more  dear 
Had  been  his  name,  —  if  that,  indeed,  could 
be! 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 


But  Arnold,  the  chief  offender,  had  escaped,  and 
a  plan  was  set  on  foot  to  abduct  him  from  the 
midst  of  the  British  and  bring  him  back  to  the 
American  lines.  The  execution  of  this  plot  was 
intrusted  to  John  Champe,  a  sergeant-major  in 
Lee's  cavalry.  On  the  night  of  October  20,  Champe 
mounted  his  horse  and  seemingly  deserted  to  the 
British,  escaping  a  hot  pursuit.  He  gained  Arnold 's 
confidence,  and  made  every  arrangement  to  ab 
duct  him,  but  was  foiled  at  the  last  moment  by 


Arnold's  embarkation   on  an   expedition   to  the 
south. 

SERGEANT   CHAMPE 

[October  20,  1780] 

COME  sheathe  your  swords !  my  gallant  boys, 

And  listen  to  the  story. 
How  Sergeant  Champe,  one  gloomy  night. 

Set  off  to  catch  the  Tory. 

You  see  the  general  had  got  mad 
To  think  his  plans  were  thwarted, 

And  swore  by  all,  both  good  and  bad, 
That  Arnold  should  be  carted. 

So  unto  Lee  he  sent  a  line. 

And  told  him  all  his  sorrow. 
And  said  that  he  must  start  the  hunt 

Before  the  coming  morrow. 

Lee  found  a  sergeant  in  his  camp, 

Made  up  of  bone  and  muscle. 
Who  ne'er  knew  fear,  and  many  a  year 

With  Tories  had  a  tussle. 

Bold  Champe,  when  mounted  on  old  Rip, 

All  button'd  up  from  weather, 
Sang  out,  "good-by!"  crack'd  off  his  whip. 

And  soon  was  in  the  heather. 

He  gallop'd  on  towards  Paulus  Hook, 

Improving  every  instant  — 
Until  a  patrol,  wide  awake, 

Descried  him  in  the  distance. 

On  coming  up,  the  guard  call'd  out 
And  asked  him  where  he 's  going  — 

To  which  he  answer'd  with  his  spur, 
And  left  him  in  the  mowing. 

The  bushes  pass'd  him  like  the  wind, 

And  pebbles  flew  asunder, 
The  guard  was  left  far,  far  behind, 

All  mix'd  with  mud  and  wonder. 

Lee's  troops  paraded,  all  alive, 
Although  *t  was  one  the  morning, 

And  counting  o'er  a  dozen  or  more, 
One  sergeant  is  found  wanting. 

A  little  hero,  full  of  spunk, 

But  not  so  full  of  judgment, 
Press'd  Major  Lee  to  let  him  go. 

With  the  bravest  of  his  reg'ment- 


240 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Lee  summon'd  comet  Middleton, 

Expressed  what  was  urgent, 
And  gave  him  orders  how  to  go 

To  catch  the  rambling  sergeant. 

Then  forty  troopers,  more  or  less, 

Set  off  across  the  meader; 
'Bout  thirty-nine  went  jogging  on 

A-following  their  leader. 

At  early  morn,  adown  a  hill, 
They  saw  the  sergeant  sliding; 

So  fast  he  went,  it  was  not  ken't 
Whether  he 's  rode,  or  riding. 

None  looked  back,  but  on  they  spurr'd, 

A-gaining  every  minute. 
To  see  them  go,  *t  would  done  you  good. 

You'd  thought  old  Satan  in  it. 

The  sergeant  miss'd  'em,  by  good  luck, 

And  took  another  tracing, 
He  turn'd  his  horse  from  Paulus  Hook, 

Elizabethtown  facing. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Sir  Hal 

To  send  his  galleys  cruising, 
And  so  it  happened  just  then 

That  two  were  at  Van  Deusen's. 

Strait  unto  these  the  sergeant  went, 
And  left  old  Rip,  all  standing, 

A-waiting  for  the  blown  cornet. 
At  Squire  Van  Deusen's  landing. 

The  troopers  did  n't  gallop  home, 
But  rested  from  their  labors; 

And  some  't  is  said  took  gingerbread 
And  cider  from  the  neighbors. 

T  was  just  at  eve  the  troopers  reach'd 
The  camp  they  left  that  morning. 

Champe's  empty  saddle,  unto  Lee, 
Gave  an  unwelcome  warning. 

"If  Champe  has  suffered,  't  is  my  fault;" 
So  thought  the  generous  major; 

"I  would  not  have  his  garment  touch'd 
For  millions  on  a  wager!" 

The  cornet  told  him  all  he  knew, 

Excepting  of  the  cider. 
The  troopers,  all,  spurred  very  well, 

But  Champe  was  the  best  rider! 


And  so  it  happen'd  that  brave  Champe 

Unto  Sir  Hal  deserted, 
Deceiving  him,  and  you,  and  me, 

And  into  York  was  flirted. 

He  saw  base  Arnold  in  his  camp, 

Surrounded  by  the  legion, 
And  told  him  of  the  recent  prank 

That  threw  him  in  that  region. 

Then  Arnold  grinn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  hands, 
And  e'enmost  choked  with  pleasure. 

Not  thinking  Champe  was  all  the  while 
A  "taking  of  his  measure." 

"Come  now,"  says  he,  "my  bold  soldier, 

As  you  're  within  our  borders, 
Let's  drink  our  fill,  old  care  to  kill, 

To-morrow  you'll  have  orders." 

Full  soon  the  British  fleet  set  sail! 

Say !  was  n't  that  a  pity  ? 
For  thus  it  was  brave  Sergeant  Champe 

Was  taken  from  the  city. 

To  southern  climes  the  shipping  flew, 

And  anchored  in  Virginia, 
When  Champe  escaped  and  join'd  his  friends 

Among  the  picininni. 

Base  Arnold's  head,  by  luck,  was  sav'd, 

Poor  Andre  was  gibbeted; 
Arnold's  to  blame  for  Andre's  fame, 

And  Andre  's  to  be  pitied. 


After  the  flurry  consequent  upon  Andre"s  cap 
ture  and  execution,  affairs  at  New  York  settled 
back  into  the  old  routine.  A  sort  of  lethargy 
seemed  to  possess  the  British  leaders,  and  the 
Americans  grew  bolder  and  bolder,  sometimes 
pushing  their  foraging  expeditions  within  the  Brit 
ish  lines,  and  on  one  occasion  seizing  a  quantity  of 
hay  and  setting  fire  to  some  houses  within  sight 
of  Clinton's  quarters.  The  next  day,  the  Loyalist 
disgust  was  voiced  in  some  verses  written  by 
Joseph  Stansbury  and  stuck  up  about  the  town. 


A  NEW  SONG 

[1780] 

"HAS  the  Marquis  La  Fayette 
Taken  off  all  our  hay  yet  ? " 
Says   Clinton    to    the   wise   heads   around 

him : 


THE  ROYAL  ADVENTURER 


241 


"Yes,  faith.  Sir  Harry, 
Each  stack  he  did  carry. 
And  likewise  the  cattle  —  confound  him ! 

"Besides,  he  now  goes, 

Just  under  your  nose, 
To  burn  all  the  houses  to  cinder." 

"If  that  be  his  project, 

It  is  not  an  object 
Worth  a  great  man's  attempting  to  hinder. 

"For  forage  and  house 

I  care  not  a  louse; 
For  revenge,  let  the  Loyalists  bellow: 

I  swear  I'll  not  do  more 

To  keep  them  in  humor, 
Than  play  on  my  violoncello. 

"Since  Charleston  is  taken, 

'T  will  sure  save  my  bacon,  — 
J  can  live  a  whole  year  on  that  same,  sir ; 

Ride  about  all  the  day, 

At  night,  concert  or  play; 
So  a  fig  for  the  men  that  dare  blame,  sir. 

"If  growlers  complain, 
I  inactive  remain  — 
Will  do  nothing,  nor  let  any  others! 
'T  is  sure  no  new  thing 
To  serve  thus  our  king  — 
Witness   Burgoyne,   and  two   famous    Bro 
thers!" 

JOSEPH  STANSBURY. 


Another  of  Stansbury's  lyrics,  and  perhaps  the 
best  he  ever  wrote,  is  "The  Lords  of  the  Main," 
Intended  for  the  use  of  the  British  sailors  then 
engaged  in  fighting  their  ancient  foes,  France  and 
Spain. 


THE  LORDS  OF  THE  MAIN 

[1780] 

WHEN  Faction,  in  league  with  the  treacher 
ous  Gaul, 

Began  to  look  big,  and  paraded  in  state, 
A  meeting  was  held  at  Credulity  Hall, 
And  Echo  proclaimed  their  ally  good  and 

great. 

By  sea  and  by  land 
Such  wonders  are  planned  — 
No  less  than  the  bold  British  lion  to  chain ! 
"Well  hove!"  says  Jack  Lanyard, 
"French,  Congo,  and  Spaniard, 


Have  at  you !  —  remember,  we  're  Lords  of 

the  Main. 

Lords  of  the  Main,  aye,  Lords  of  the  Main; 
The  Tars  of  old  England  are  Lords  of  the 

Main ! " 

Though  party-contention  awhile  may  perplex, 

And  lenity  hold  us  in  doubtful  suspense, 
If  perfidy  rouse,  or  ingratitude  vex, 
In  defiance  of  hell  we'll  chastise  the  of 
fence. 

When  danger  alarms, 
'T  is  then  that  in  arms 
United  we  rush  on  the  foe  with  disdain; 
And  when  the  storm  rages, 
It  only  presages 
Fresh  triumphs  to  Britons  as  Lords  of  the 

Main! 

Lords  of  the  Main,  aye,  Lords  of  the  Main  — 
Let  thunder  proclaim  it,  we're  Lords  of  the 
Main! 

Then,  Britons,  strike  home  —  make  sure  of 

your  blow: 
The  chase  is  in  view  —  never  mind  a  lea 

shore. 

With  vengeance  o'ertake  the*confederate  foe : 
'T  is  now  we  may  rival  our  heroes  of  yore ! 
Brave  Anson,  and  Drake, 
Hawke,  Russell,  and  Blake, 
With  ardor  like  yours,  we  defy  France  and 

Spain! 

Combining  with  treason, 
They're  deaf  to  all  reason; 
Once  more  let  them  feel  we  are  Lords  of  the 

Main. 

Lords  of  the  Main,  aye,  Lords  of  the  Main  — 
The  first-born  of  Neptune  are  Lords  of  the 
Main! 

JOSEPH  STANSBURT. 

Among  the  desperate  and  foolish  expedients  to 
which  the  British  resorted  in  the  hope  of  winning 
America  back  to  her  allegiance  was  that  of  send 
ing  Prince  William  Henry,  afterwards  William  IV, 
to  New  York  in  1781.  The  Tory  authorities  of  the 
city  overwhelmed  him  with  adulation,  but  in  the 
country  at  large,  his  visit  excited  only  derision. 

THE  ROYAL  ADVENTURER 

[1781J 

PRINCE  WILLIAM,  of  the  Brunswick  race. 
To  witness  George's  sad  disgrace 
The  royal  lad  came  over. 


242 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Rebels  to  kill,  by  right  divine  — 
Derived  from  that  illustrious  line, 
The  beggars  of  Hanover. 

So  many  chiefs  got  broken  pates 
In  vanquishing  the  rebel  states, 

So  many  nobles  fell, 

That  George  the  Third  in  passion  cried: 
"Our  royal  blood  must  now  be  tried; 

'T  is  that  must  break  the  spell ; 

"To  you  [the  fat  pot-valiant  swain 
To  Digby  said),  dear  friend  of  mine, 

To  you  I  trust  my  boy; 
The  rebel  tribes  shall  quake  with  fears, 
Rebellion  die  when  he  appears, 

My  Tories  leap  with  joy." 

So  said,  so  done  —  the  lad  was  sent, 
But  never  reached  the  continent, 

An  island  held  him  fast  — 
Yet  there  his  friends  danced  rigadoons, 
The  Hessians  sung  in  high  Dutch  tunes, 

"  Prince  William  's  come  at  last ! " 

"Prince    William's    come!"  —  the  Briton 

cried  — 
"  Our  labors  now  will  be  repaid  — 

Dominion  be  restored  — 
Our  monarch  is  in  William  seen. 
He  is  the  image  of  our  queen, 

Let  William  be  adored!" 

The  Tories  came  with  long  address, 
W  ith  poems  groaned  the  royal  press, 

And  all  in  William's  praise  — 
The  youth,  astonished,  looked  about 
To  find  their  vast  dominions  out, 

Then  answered  in  amaze: 

"W7here  all  your  vast  domain  can  be, 
Friends,  for  my  soul  I  cannot  see; 

'T  is  but  an  empty  name ; 
Three  wasted  islands  and  a  town 
In  rubbish  buried  —  kalf  burnt  down, 

Is  all  that  we  can  claim ; 

"  I  am  of  royal  birth,  't  is  true. 
But  what,  my  sons,  can  princes  do, 

No  armies  to  command  ? 
Cornwallis  conquered  and  distrest  — 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  grown  a  jest  — 

I  curse  —  and  quit  the  land." 

PHILIP  FRENEATJ. 


The  war  in  the  North  thereafter  was  confined, 
on  the  part  of  the  British,  to  predatory  raids  along 
the  coasts,  of  which  "The  Descent  on  Middlesex" 
is  a  fair  example.  On  the  afternoon  of  July  22, 
1781,  a  party  of  Royalist  refugees  surrounded  the 
church,  where  the  people  of  Middlesex  were  at 
prayer,  and  took  fifty  of  them  captive,  among 
them  Schoolmaster  St.  John,  of  Norwalk,  the 
author  of  the  following  ingenuous  ballad  describ 
ing  their  experiences. 

THE  DESCENT  ON  MIDDLESEX 

[July  22, 1781] 

JULY  the  twenty-second  day, 
The  precise  hour  I  will  not  say, 
In  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty-one, 
A  horrid  action  was  begun. 

While  to  the  Lord  they  sing  and  pray, 
The  Tories  who  in  ambush  lay, 
Beset  the  house  with  brazen  face, 
At  Middlesex,  it  was  the  place. 

A  guard  was  plac'd  the  house  before, 
Likewise  behind  and  at  each  door; 
Then  void  of  shame,  those  men  of  sin 
The  sacred  temple  enter'd  in. 

The  reverend  Mather  closed  his  book. 
How  did  the  congregation  loek ! 
Those  demons  plunder'd  all  they  could, 
Either  in  silver  or  in  gold. 

The  silver  buckles  which  we  use, 
Both  at  the  knees  and  on  the  shoes, 
These  caitiffs  took  them  in  their  rage, 
Had  no  respect  for  sex  or  age. 

As  they  were  searching  all  around. 
They  several  silver  watches  found; 
While  they  who 're  plac'd  as  guards  without, 
Like  raging  devils  rang'd  about. 

Run  forty  horses  to  the  shore, 
Not  many  either  less  or  more; 
With  bridles,  saddles,  pillions  on; 
In  a  few  minutes  all  was  done. 

The  men  from  hence  they  took  away, 
Upon  that  awful  sacred  day, 
W7as  forty-eight,  besides  two  more 
They  chanc'd  to  find  upon  the  shore. 

On  board  the  shipping  they  were  sent, 
Their  money  gone,  and  spirits  spent, 


THE   DESCENT   ON   MIDDLESEX 


243 


And  greatly  fearing  their  sad  end, 
This  wicked  seizure  did  portend. 

They  hoisted  sail,  the  Sound  they  cross'd, 
And  near  Lloyd's  Neck  they  anchor'd  first; 
'T  was  here  the  Tories  felt  't  was  wrong 
To  bring  so  many  men  along. 

Then  every  man  must  tell  his  name, 
A  list  they  took,  and  kept  the  same; 
When  twenty-four  of  fifty  men 
Were  order'd  to  go  home  again. 

The  twenty-six  who  stay'd  behind, 
Most  cruelly  they  were  confin'd; 
On  board  the  brig  were  order'd  quick. 
And  then  confin'd  beneath  the  deck. 

A  disraal  hole  with  filth  besmear'd. 
But  't  was  no  more  than  what  we  fear'd; 
Sad  the  confinement,  dark  the  night, 
But  then  the  devil  thought  't  was  right. 

But  to  return  whence  I  left  off. 
They  at  our  misery  made  a  scoff; 
Like  raving  madmen  tore  about, 
Swearing  they  'd  take  our  vitals  out. 

They  said  no  quarter  they  would  give 
Nor  let  a  cursed  rebel  live; 
But  would  their  joints  in  pieces  cut, 
Then  round  the  deck  like  turkeys  strut. 

July,  the  fourth  and  twentieth  day, 
We  all  marched  off  to  Oyster  Bay ; 
To  increase  our  pains  and  make  it  worse, 
They  iron'd  just  six  pair  of  us. 

Bui  as  they  wanted  just  one  pair, 

An  iron  stirrup  lying  there 

Was  taken  and  on  anvil  laid, 

On  which  they  with  a  hammer  paid. 

And  as  they  beat  it  inch  by  inch, 
They  bruis'd  their  wrists,  at  which  they  Oinch ; 
Those  wretched  caitiffs  standing  by, 
Would  laugh  to  hear  the  sufferers  cry. 

Although  to  call  them  not  by  name, 
From  Fairfield  county  many  came; 
And  were  delighted  with  the  rout, 
To  see  the  rebels  kiek'd  about. 

At  night  we  travell'd  in  the  rain. 
All  begw'd  for  shelter,  but  in  vain, 


Though  almost  naked  to  the  skin; 
A  dismal  pickle  we  were  in. 

Then  to  the  half-way  house  we  came. 
The  "Half-way  House"  't  is  called  by  name, 
And  there  we  found  a  soul's  relief; 
We  almost  miss'd  our  dreadful  grief. 

The  people  gen'rously  behav'd. 
Made  a  good  fire,  some  brandy  gave, 
Of  which  we  greatly  stood  in  need, 
As  we  were  wet  and  cold  indeed. 

But  ere  the  house  we  did  attain. 
We  trembled  so  with  cold  and  rain, 
Our  irons  jingled  —  well  they  might  — 
We  shiver 'd  so  that  stormy  night. 

In  half  an  hour  or  thereabout. 
The  orders  were,  "Come,  all  turn  out! 
Ye  rebel  prisoners,  shabby  crew, 
To  loiter  thus  will  never  do." 

'T  was  now  about  the  break  of  day. 
When  all  were  forc'd  to  march  away; 
With  what  they  order'd  we  complied, 
Though  cold,  nor  yet  one  quarter  dried. 

We  made  a  halt  one  half  mile  short 
Of  what  is  term'd  Brucklyn's  fort; 
Where  all  were  hurried  through  the  street: 
Some  overtook  us,  some  we  met. 

We  now  traversing  the  parade, 
The  awful  figure  which  we  made, 
Caus'd  laughter,  mirth,  and  merriment, 
And  some  would  curse  us  as  we  went. 

Their  grandest  fort  was  now  hard  by  us; 
They  show'd  us  that  to  terrify  us; 
They  show'd  us  all  their  bulwarks  there, 
To  let  be  known  how  strong  they  were. 

Just  then  the  Tory  drums  did  sound, 
And  pipes  rang  out  a  warlike  round; 
Supposing  we  must  thence  conclude 
That  Britain  ne'er  could  be  subdued. 

Up  to  the  guard-house  we  were  led. 
Where  each  receiv'd  a  crumb  of  bread; 
Not  quite  one  mouthful,  I  believe, 
For  every  man  we  did  receive. 

In  boats,  the  ferry  soon  we  pass'd, 
And  at  New  York  arriv'd  at  last; 


244 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


As  through  the  streets  we  pass'd  along, 
Ten  thousand  curses  round  us  rang. 

But  some  would  laugh,  and  some  would  sneer, 
And  some  would  grin,  and  others  leer; 
A  mixed  mob,  a  medley  crew, 
I  guess  as  e'er  the  devil  knew. 

To  the  Provost  we  then  were  haul'd, 
Though  we  of  war  were  prisoners  call'd; 
Our  irons  now  were  order'd  off, 
And  we  were  left  to  sneeze  and  cough. 

But  oh .'  what  company  we  found. 
With  great  surprise  we  look'd  around: 
I  must  conclude  that  in  that  place, 
We  found  the  worst  of  Adam's  race. 

Thieves,  murd'rers,  and  pickpockets  too, 
And  everything  that's  bad  they'd  do; 
One  of  our  men  found  to  his  cost, 
Three  pounds,  York  money,  he  had  lost. 

They  pick'd  his  pocket  quite  before 
We  had  been  there  one  single  hour; 
And  while  he  looked  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  vagrants  from  him  stole  some  more. 

We  soon  found  out,  but  thought  it  strange 
We  never  were  to  be  exchang'd 
By  a  cartel,  but  for  some  men 
Whom  they  desir'd  to  have  again. 

A  pack  with  whom  they  well  agree, 
Who 're  call'd  the  loyal  company, 
Or  "Loyalists  Associated," 
As  by  themselves  incorporated. 

Our  food  was  call'd  two-thirds  in  weight 
Of  what  a  soldier  has  to  eat; 
We  had  no  blankets  in  our  need, 
Till  a  kind  friend  did  intercede. 

Said  he,  "The  prisoners  suffer  so, 
'T  is  quite  unkind  and  cruel,  too; 
I'm  sure  it  makes  my  heart  to  bleed, 
So  great  their  hardship  and  their  need.' 

And  well  to  us  was  the  event, 
Fine  blankets  soon  to  us  were  sent; 
Small  the  allowance,  very  small, 
But  better  far  than  none  at  all. 

An  oaken  plank,  it  was  our  bed, 
An  oaken  pillow  for  the  head, 
And  room  as  scanty  as  our  meals, 
For  we  lay  crowded  head  and  heels. 


In  seven  days  or  thereabout, 
One  Jonas  Weed  was  taken  out, 
And  to  his  friends  he  was  resign'd, 
But  many  still  were  kept  behind. 

Soon  after  this  some  were  parol'd, 
Too  tedious  wholly  to  be  told; 
And  some  from  bondage  were  unstrung, 
Whose  awful  sufferings  can't  be  sung. 

The  dread  smallpox  to  some  they  gave, 
Nor  tried  at  all  their  lives  to  save, 
But  rather  sought  their  desolation, 
As  they  denied  'em  'noculation. 

To  the  smallpox  there  did  succeed 
A  putrid  fever,  bad  indeed; 
As  they  before  were  weak  and  spent, 
Soon  from  the  stage  of  life  they  went. 

For  wood  we  greatly  stood  in  need, 
For  which  we  earnestly  did  plead; 
But  one  tenth  part  of  what  we  wanted 
Of  wood,  to  us  was  never  granted. 

The  boiling  kettles  which  we  had, 
Were  wanting  covers,  -good  or  bad; 
The  worst  of  rum  that  could  be  bought, 
For  a  great  price,  to  us  was  brought. 

For  bread  and  milk,  and  sugar,  too, 
We  had  to  pay  four  times  their  due; 
While  cash  and  clothing  which  were  sent. 
Those  wretched  creatures  did  prevent. 

Some  time  it  was  in  dark  November, 
But  just  the  day  I  can't  remember, 
Full  forty  of  us  were  confin'd 
In  a  small  room  both  damp  and  blind, 

Because  there  had  been  two  or  three, 
Who  were  not  of  our  company, 
Who  did  attempt  the  other  day, 
The  Tories  said,  to  get  away. 

In  eighteen  days  we  were  exchang'd, 
And  through  the  town  allowed  to  range; 
Of  twenty-five  that  were  ta'en, 
But  just  nineteen  reach'd  home  again. 

Four  days  before  December 's  gone, 
In  seventeen  hundred  eighty-one, 
I  hail'd  the  place  where  months  before, 
The  Tories  took  me  from  the  shore. 

PETEK  ST.  JOHN. 


ABOUT  SAVANNAH 


245 


CHAPTER  X 


THE   WAR    IN   THE   SOUTH 


After  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne,  the  military 
attitude  of  the  British  in  the  Northern  States  was, 
as  has  been  seen,  purely  defensive,  but  the  South 
ern  States  were  the  scene  of  vigorous  fighting. 
The  King  had  set  his  heart  on  the  reduction  of 
Georgia  and  the  Carolinas,  and  it  looked  for  a 
time  as  though  he  would  be  gratified.  In  General 
Augustine  Prevost  there  was  at  last  found  a  man 
after  the  King's  own  heart,  and  his  barbarities 
and  vandalism  were  among  the  most  monstrous 
of  the  war.  General  Benjamin  Lincoln  was  sent 
south  to  oppose  him,  and  was  soon  joined  by 
Count  Pulaski  and  his  legion. 

HYMN   OF   THE   MORAVIAN   NUNS 
OF   BETHLEHEM 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF   PtJLASKl'S 
BANNER 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head; 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the 
while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"Take  thy  banner!   May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale. 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes. 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free! 
Guard  it!   God  will  prosper  thee! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

"Take  thy  banner!   But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 


If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him !   By  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy  that  endears. 

Spare  him !  he  our  love  hath  shared ! 

Spare  him !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared  5 

"Take  thy  banner!  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud. 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud! 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


In  August,  1779,  the  French  fleet  under  D'Estaing 
appeared  off  the  coast  of  Georgia,  and  plans  were 
made  for  the  capture  of  Savannah.  The  place  was 
closely  invested  by  the  French  and  Americans, 
and  for  nearly  a  month  the  siege  was  vigorously 
carried  on.  But  D'Estaing  grew  impatient,  and  on 
October  9  an  attempt  was  made  to  carry  the 
place  by  storm.  The  assailants  were  totally  de 
feated,  losing  more  than  a  thousand  men,  while 
the  British  loss  was  only  fifty-five.  Count  Pulaski 
was  among  the  slain. 


ABOUT  SAVANNAH 

[October  9,  1779] 

COME  let  us  rejoice, 

With  heart  and  with  voice, 
Her  triumphs  let  loyalty  show,  sir, 

While  bumpers  go  round, 

Reecho  the  sound, 
Huzza  for  the  King  and  Prevost,  sir. 

With  warlike  parade. 

And  his  Irish  brigade, 
His  ships  and  his  spruce  Gallic  host,  sir, 

As  proud  as  an  elf, 

D'Estaing  came  himself, 
And  landed  on  Georgia's  coast,  sir. 

There  joining  a  band 
Under  Lincoln's  command, 
Of  rebels  and  traitors  and  Whigs,  sir, 


246 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'Gainst  the  town  of  Savannah 
He  planted  his  banner, 
And  then  he  felt  wondrous  big,  sir. 

With  thund'ring  of  guns, 

And  bursting  of  bombs, 
He  thought  to  have  frighten'd  our  boys,  sir: 

But  amidst  all  their  din, 

Brave  Maitland  push'd  in, 
And  Moncrieffe  cried,  "A  fig  for  your  noise," 


Chagrined  at  delay, 

As  he  meant  not  to  stay, 
The  Count  form'd  his  troops  in  the  morn,  sir. 

Van,  centre,  and  rear 

March'd  up  without  fear, 
Cock  sure  of  success,  by  a  storm,  sir. 

Though  rude  was  the  shock, 

Unmov'd  as  a  rock, 

Stood  our  firm  British  bands  to  their  works, 
sir. 

While  the  brave  German  corps, 

And  Americans  bore 
Their  parts  as  intrepid  as  Turks,  sir. 

Then  muskets  did  rattle, 

Fierce  raged  the  battle, 
Grape  shot  it  flew  thicker  than  hail,  sir. 

The  ditch  fill'd  with  slain, 

Blood  dyed  all  the  plain, 
When  rebels  and  French  turned  tail,  sir. 

See!  see!  how  they  run! 

Lord!  what  glorious  fun! 
How  they  tumble,  by  cannon  mowed  down, 
sir! 

Brains  fly  all  around, 

Dying  screeches  resound, 
And  mangled  limbs  cover  the  ground,  sir. 

There  Pulaski  fell. 

That  imp  of  old  Bell, 
Who  attempted  to  murder  his  king,  sir. 

But  now  he  is  gone 

Whence  he'll  never  return; 
But  will  make  hell  with  treason  to  ring,  sir. 

To  Charleston  with  fear 

The  rebels  repair; 
D'Estaing  scampers  back  to  his  boats,  sir, 

Each  blaming  the  other, 

Each  cursing  his  brother, 
And  —  may  they  cut  each  other's  throats,  sir. 


Scarce  three  thousand  men 

The  town  did  maintain, 
'Gainst  three  times  their  number  of  foes,  sir. 

Who  left  on  the  plain, 

Of  wounded  and  slain,. 
Three  thousand  to  fatten  the  crows,  sir. 

Three  thousand!  no  less! 

For  the  rebels  confess 
Some  loss,  as  you  very  well  know,  sir. 

Then  let  bumpers  go  round. 

And  reecho  the  sound, 
Huzza  for  the  King  and  Prevost,  sir. 

As  soon  as  Clinton  learned  of  this  victory,  he 
determined  to  capture  Charleston,  where  General 
Lincoln  was  stationed  with  three  thousand  men. 
Lincoln  decided  to  withstand  a  siege,  hoping  for 
reinforcements;  but  none  came,  and  on  May  12, 
1 780,  to  avoid  a  wanton  waste  of  life,  he  surren 
dered  his  army  and  the  city  to  the  British. 

A  SONG  ABOUT  CHARLESTON 

[May  12,  1780) 

KING  HANCOCK  sat  in  regal  state, 
And  big  with  pride  and  vainly  great, 

Address'd  his  rebel  crew: 
"  These  haughty  Britons  soon  shall  yield 
The  boasted  honors  of  the  field. 

While  our  brave  sons  pursue. 

"  Six  thousand  fighting  men  or  more, 
Protect  the  Carolina  shore. 

And  Freedom  will  defend; 
And  stubborn  Britons  soon  shall  feel, 
'Gainst  Charleston,  and  hearts  of  steel, 

How  vainly  they  contend." 

But  ere  he  spake,  in  dread  array, 
To  rebel  foes,  ill-fated  day, 

The  British  boys  appear; 
Their  mien  with  martial  ardor  fir'd, 
And  by  their  country's  wrongs  inspir'd, 

Shook  Lincoln's  heart  with  fear. 

See  Clinton  brave,  serene,  and  great, 
For  mighty  deeds  rever'd  by  fate, 

Direct  the  thund'ring  fight, 
While  Mars,  propitious  god  of  war, 
Looks  down  from  his  triumphal  car 

With  wonder  and  delight. 

"Clinton,"  he  cries,  "the  palm  is  thine, 
'Midst  heroes  thou  wert  born  to  shine 
A  great  immortal  name, 


THE  SWAMP  FOX 


247 


And  Cornwallis'  mighty  deeds  appear 
Conspicuous  each  revolving  year, 
The  pledge  of  future  fame." 

Our  tars,  their  share  of  glories  won, 
For  they  among  the  bravest  shone, 

Undaunted,  firm,  and  bold; 
Whene'er  engag'd,  their  ardor  show'd 
Hearts  which  with  native  valor  glow'd, 

Hearts  of  true  British  mould. 


The  whole  of  South  Carolina  was  soon  overrun 
by  the  British;  estates  were  confiscated,  houses 
were  burned,  and  alleged  traitors  hanged  without 
trial.  Organized  resistance  was  impossible,  but 
there  soon  sprang  up  in  the  state  a  number  of 
partisan  leaders,  foremost  among  whom  was 
Francis  Marion,  perhaps  the  most  picturesque 
figure  of  the  Revolution.  No  act  of  cruelty  ever 
sullied  the  brightness  of  his  fame,  but  no  partisan 
leader  excelled  him  in  ability  to  distress  the  enemy 
in  legitimate  warfare. 


THE  SWAMP  FOX 

WE  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

His  friends  and  merry  men  are  we; 
And  when  the  troop  of  Tarleton  rides, 

We  burrow  in  the  cypress-tree. 
The  turfy  hammock  is  our  bed. 

Our  home  is  in  the  red  deer's  den, 
Our  roof,  the  tree-top  overhead. 

For  we  are  wild  and  hunted  men. 

We  fly  by  day  and  shun  its  light. 

But,  prompt  to  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
We  mount  and  start  with  early  night, 

And  through  the  forest  track  our  foe. 
And  soon  he  hears  our  chargers  leap, 

The  flashing  sabre  blinds  his  eyes. 
And  ere  he  drives  away  his  sleep, 

And  rushes  from  his  camp,  he  dies. 

Free  bridle-bit,  good  gallant  steed, 

That  will  not  ask  a  kind  caress 
To  swim  the  Santee  at  our  need, 

When  on  his  heels  the  foemen  press,  — 
The  true  heart  and  the  ready  hand. 

The  spirit  stubborn  to  be  free, 
The  twisted  bore,  the  smiting  brand,  — 

And  we  are  Marion's  men,  you  see. 

Now  light  the  fire  and  cook  the  meal. 
The  last  perhaps  that  we  shall  taste; 

I  hear  the  Swamp  Fox  round  us  steal. 
And  that's  a  sign  we  move  in  haste. 


He  whistles  to  the  scouts,  and  hark ! 

You  hear  his  order  calm  and  low. 
Come,  wave  your  torch  across  the  dark, 

And  let  us  see  the  boys  that  go. 

We  may  not  see  their  forms  again, 

God  help  'em,  should  they  find  the  strife! 
For  they  are  strong  and  fearless  men, 

And  make  no  coward  terms  for  life; 
They'll  fight  as  long  as  Marion  bids, 

And  when  he  speaks  the  word  to  shy. 
Then,  not  till  then,  they  turn  their  steeds, 

Through  thickening  shade  and  swamp  to 

fly- 

Now  stir  the  fire  and  lie  at  ease,  — 

The  scouts  are  gone,  and  on  the  brush 
I  see  the  Colonel  bend  his  knee. 

To  take  his  slumbers  too.   But  hush ! 
He's  praying,  comrades;  't  is  not  strange; 

The  man  that's  fighting  day  by  day 
May  well,  when  night  comes,  take  a  change, 

And  down  upon  his  knees  to  pray. 

Break  up  that  hoe-cake,  boys,  and  hand 

The  sly  and  silent  jug  that's  there; 
I  love  not  it  should  idly  stand 

When  Marion's  men  have  need  of  cheer. 
'T  is  seldom  that  our  luck  affords 

A  stuff  like  this  we  just  have  quaffed, 
And  dry  potatoes  on  our  boards 

May  always  call  for  such  a  draught. 

Now  pile  the  brush  and  roll  the  log; 

Hard  pillow,  but  a  soldier's  head 
That's  half  the  time  in  brake  and  bog 

Must  never  think  of  softer  bed. 
The  owl  is  hooting  to  the  night. 

The  cooter  crawling  o'er  the  bank, 
And  in  that  pond  the  flashing  light 

Tells  where  the  alligator  sank. 

What !  't  is  the  signal !  start  so  soon. 

And  through  the  Santee  swamp  so  deep, 
Without  the  aid  of  friendly  moon. 

And  we.  Heaven  help  us!  half  asleep! 
But  courage,  comrades!   Marion  leads. 

The  Swamp  Fox  takes  us  out  to-night; 
So  clear  your  swords  and  spur  your  steeds. 

There's  goodly  chance,  I  think,  of  fight. 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 
We  leave  the  swamp  and  cypress-tree, 

Our  spurs  are  in  our  coursers'  sides, 
And  ready  for  the  strife  are  we. 


248 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  Tory  camp  is  now  in  sight. 

And  there  he  cowers  within  his  den; 

He  hears  our  shouts,  he  dreads  the  fight, 
He  fears,  and  flies  from  Marion's  men. 
WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within 'the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil; 
We  talk' the  battle  over, 

We  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

'T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 
Across  the  moonlight  plain; 


'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — • 

A  moment  —  and  away, 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer. 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

Among  the  members  of  Marion's  band  was  a 
gigantic  Scotsman  named  Macdonald,  the  hero 
of  many  daring  escapades,  of  which  his  raid 
through  Georgetown,  S.  C.,  with  only  four  troop 
ers,  was  the  most  remarkable.  Georgetown  was 
a  fortified  place,  defended  by  a  garrison  of  three 
hundred  men. 

MACDONALD'S  RAID 

[1780] 

I  REMEMBER  it  well ;  't  was  a  morn  dull  and 

gray, 

And  the  legion  lay  idle  and  listless  that  day, 
A  thin  drizzle  of  rain  piercing  chill  to  the 

soul, 
And  with  not  a  spare  bumper  to  brighten  the 

bowl, 
When    Macdonald   arose,   and   unsheathing 

his  blade, 
Cried,  "Who'll  back  me,  brave  comrades? 

I  'm  hot  for  a  raid. 
Let  the  carbines  be  loaded,  the  war  harness 

ring. 
Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down 

with  the  King!" 

We  leaped  up  at  his  summons,  all  eager  and 

bright, 

To  our  finger-tips  thrilling  to  join  him  in  fight ; 
Yet  he  chose  from  our  numbers  four  men  and 

no  more. 
"Stalwart  brothers,"  quoth  he,  "you'll  be 

strong  as  fourscore, 


MACDONALD'S   RAID 


249 


If  you  follow  me  fast  wheresoever  I  lead, 
With    keen   sword   and   true   pistol,   stanch 

heart  and  bold  steed. 

Let  the  weapons  be  loaded,  the  bridle-bits  ring. 
Then  swift  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down 

with  the  King!" 

In  a  trice  we  were  mounted;  Macdonald's 

tall  form 

Seated  firm  in  the  saddle,  his  face  like  a  storm 
When   the   clouds   on   Ben   Lomond   hang 

heavy  and  stark, 
And  the  red    veins  of    lightning  pulse   hot 

through  the  dark; 
His  left  hand  on  his  sword-belt,  his  right 

lifted  free. 
With  a  prick  from  the  spurred  heel,  a  touch 

from  the  knee, 

His  lithe  Arab  was  off  like  an  eagle  on  wing  — 
Ha!  death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down 

with  the  King! 

'Twas  three  leagues  to  the  town,  where,  in 

insolent  pride, 
Of  their  disciplined  numbers,   their  works 

strong  and  wide, 
The  big  Britons,  oblivious  of  warfare  and 

arms, 
A  soft  dolce  were  wrapped  in,  not  dreaming 

of  harms. 

When  fierce  yells,  as  if  borne  on  some  fiend- 
ridden  rout. 
With  strange  cheer  after  cheer,  are  heard 

echoing  without, 
Over  which,  like  the  blast  of  ten  trumpeters, 

ring, 
"Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down 

with  the  King!" 

Such  a  tumult  we  raised  with  steel,  hoof- 
stroke,  and  shout, 

That  the  foemen  made  straight  for  their  in 
most  redoubt, 

And  therein,  with  pale  lips  and  cowed  spirits, 
quoth  they, 

"Lord,  the  whole  rebel  army  assaults  us  to 
day. 

Are  the  works,  think  you,  strong?  God  of 
heaven,  what  a  din ! 

'T  is  the  front  wall  besieged  —  have  the 
rebels  rushed  in? 

It  must  be;  for,  hark!  hark  to  that  jubilant 
ring 

Of  'death  to  the  Redcoats,  and  down  with 
the  King!'" 


Meanwhile,  through  the  town  like  a  whirl 
wind  we  sped, 

And  ere  long  be  assured  that  our  broad 
swords  were  red; 

And  the  ground  here  and  there  by  an  ominous 
stain 

Showed  how  the  stark  soldier  beside  it  was 
slain : 

A  fat  sergeant-major,  who  yawed  like  a 
goose, 

With  his  waddling  bow-legs,  and  his  trappings 
all  loose, 

By  one  back-handed  blow  the  Macdonald 
cuts  down, 

To  the  shoulder-blade  cleaving  him  sheer 
through  the  crown, 

And  the  last  words  that  greet  his  dim  con 
sciousness  ring 

With  "Death,  death  to  the  Redcoats,  and 
down  with  the  King!" 

Having  cleared  all  the  streets,  not  an  enemy 

left 

Whose  heart  was  unpierced,  or  whose  head 
piece  uncleft, 
What  should  we  do  next,  but  —  as  careless 

and  calm 
As  if  we  were  scenting  a  summer  morn's 

balm 
'Mid  a  land  of  pure  peace  —  just  serenely 

drop  down 
On  the  few  constant  friends  who  still  stopped 

in  the  town. 
What  a  welcome  they  gave  us!    One  dear 

little  thing, 
As  I  kissed  her  sweet  lips,  did  I  dream  of  the 

King?  — 

Of  the  King  or  his  minions  ?  No ;  war  and  its 

scars 
Seemed  as  distant  just  then  as  the  fierce  front 

of  Mars 
From  a  love-girdled  earth ;  but,  alack !  on  our 

bliss, 
On  the  close  clasp  of  arms  and  kiss  showering 

on  kiss, 
Broke  the  rude  bruit  of  battle,  the  rush  thick 

and  fast 
Of  the  Britons  made  'ware  of  our  rash  ruse 

at  last; 
So  we  haste  to  our  coursers,  yet  flying,  we 

fling 
The  old  watch-words  abroad,  "Down  with 

Redcoats  and  King!" 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


As  we  scampered  pell-mell  o'er  the  hard- 
beaten  track 

We  had  traversed  that  morn,  we  glanced 
momently  back, 

And  beheld  their  long  earth-works  all  com 
passed  in  flame: 

With  a  vile  plunge  and  hiss  the  huge  musket- 
balls  came, 

And  the  soil  was  ploughed  up,  and  the  space 
'twixt  the  trees 

Seemed  to  hum  with  the  war-song  of  Brob- 
dingnag  bees; 

Yet  above  them,  beyond  them,  victoriously 
ring 

The  shouts,  "Death  to  the  Redcoats,  and 
down  with  the  King!" 

Ah!  that  was  a  feat,  lads,  to  boast  of!   What 

men 
Like  you  weaklings  to-day  had  durst  cope 

with  us  then  ? 
Though  I  say  it  who  should  not,  I  am  ready 

to  vow 
1  'd  o'ermatch  a  half  score  of  your  fops  even 

now  — 
The  poor  puny  prigs,  mincing  up,  mincing 

down, 
Through  the  whole  wasted  day  the  thronged 

streets  of  the  town: 
WThy,  their  dainty  white  necks  't  were  but 

pastime  to  wring  — 
Ay !  my  muscles  are  firm  still ;  /  fought  'gainst 

the  King! 

Dare  you  doubt  it  ?  well,  give  me  the  weight 
iest  of  all 

The  sheathed  sabres  that  hang  there,  un- 
looped  on  the  wall; 

Hurl  the  scabbard  aside;  yield  the  blade  to 
my  clasp; 

Do  you  see,  with  one  hand  how  I  poise  it  and 
grasp 

The  rough  iron-bound  hilt?  With  this  long 
hissing  sweep 

1  have  smitten  full  many  a  foeman  with 
sleep  — 

That  forlorn,  final  sleep!  God!  what  memo 
ries  cling 

To  those  gallant  old  times  when  we  fought 
'gainst  the  King. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HATNE. 


Second  alone  to  Marion  in  this  wild  warfare  was 
Thomas  Sumter,  a  Virginian,  destined  to  serve 
his  country  in  other  ways.  During  the  summer  of 


1780,  he  kept  up  so  brisk  a  guerrilla  warfare  that 
Cornwallis  called  him  "  the  greatest  plague  in  the 
country." 

SUMTER'S  BAND 

WHEN  Carolina's  hope  grew  pale 

Before  the  British  lion's  tread, 
And  Freedom's  sigh  in  every  gale 

Was  heard  above  her  martyr'd  dead; 

W7hen  from  her  mountain  heights  subdued, 
In  pride  of  place  forbid  to  soar, 

Her  Eagle  banner,  quench'd  in  blood, 
Lay  sullen  on  the  indignant  shore, 

Breathing  revenge,  invoking  doom, 

Tyrant !  upon  thy  purple  host, 
W7hen  all  stood  wrapt  in  steadfast  gloom, 

And  silence  brooded  o'er  her  coast, 

Stealthy,  as  when  from  thicket  dun, 
The  Indian  springs  upon  his  bow, 

Up  rose,  South  Mount,  thy  warrior  son, 
And  headlong  darted  on  the  foe. 

Not  in  the  pride  of  war  he  came, 
With  bugle  note  and  banner  high, 

And  nodding  plume,  and  steel  of  flame, 
Red  battle's  gorgeous  panoply! 

WTith  followers  few,  but  undismay'd, 

Each  change  and  chance  of  fate  withstood, 

Beneath  her  sunshine  and  her  shade, 
The  same  heroic  brotherhood! 

From  secret  nook,  in  other  land, 

Emerging  fleet  along  the  pine, 
Prone  down  he  flew  before  his  band, 

Like  eagle  on  the  British  line! 

Catacoba's  waters  smiled  again, 
To  see  her  Sumter's  soul  in  arms; 

And  issuing  from  each  glade  and  glen, 
Rekindled  by  war's  fierce  alarms, 

Throng'd  hundreds  through  the  solitude 

Of  the  wild  forest,  to  the  call 
Of  him  whose  spirit,  unsubdued, 

Fresh  impulse  gave  to  each,  to  all. 

By  day  the  burning  sands  they  ply, 
Night  sees  them  in  the  fell  ravine; 

Familiar  to  each  follower's  eye, 

The  tangled  brake,  the  hall  of  green. 


THE  BATTLE  OF   KING'S  MOUNTAIN 


251 


Roused  by  their  tread  from  covert  deep. 
Springs  the  gaunt  wolf,  and  thus  while 
near 

Is  heard,  forbidding  thought  of  sleep. 
The  rattling  serpent's  sound  of  fear! 

Before  or  break  of  early  morn, 
Or  fox  looks  out  from  copse  to  close, 

Before  the  hunter  winds  his  horn. 
Sumter  's  already  on  his  foes ! 

He  beat  them  back !  beneath  the  flame 
Of  valor  quailing,  or  the  shock! 

And  carved,  at  last,  a  hero's  name 
Upon  the  glorious  Hanging  Rock.1 

And  time,  that  shades  or  sears  the  wreath, 
V\7here  glory  binds  the  soldier's  brow, 

Kept  bright  her  Sumter's  fame  in  death, 
His  hour  of  proudest  triumph,  now. 

Ami  ne'er  shall  tyrant  tread  the  shore 
Where  Sumter  bled,  nor  bled  in  vain; 

A  thousand  hearts  shall  break,  before 
They  wear  the  oppressor's  chains  again. 

O  never  can  thy  sons  forget 

The  mighty  lessons  taught  by  thee; 

Since  —  treasured  by  the  eternal  debt  — 
Their  watchword  is  thy  memory! 

J.  W.  SIMMONS. 

South  Carolina  was  too  important  to  be  left 
dependent  upon  the  skill  of  partisan  commanders, 
and  General  Gates  was  hurried  to  the  scene,  only 
to  be  ignominiously  defeated  by  Cornwallis  at 
Camden,  and  routed  with  a  loss  of  two  thousand 
men.  Cornwallis,  elated  by  this  victory,  started 
for  North  Carolina;  but  the  country  was  thor 
oughly  aroused,  and  on  October  7  a  detachment 
of  twelve  hundred  men  was  brought  to  bay  on 
King's  Mountain,  and  either  killed  or  captured. 

THE  BATTLE  OF   KING'S 
MOUNTAIN 

[October  7,  1780] 

*T  WAS  on  a  pleasant  mountain 

The  Tory  heathens  lay. 
With  a  doughty  major  at  their  head, 

One  Ferguson,  they  say. 

Cornwallis  had  detach'd  him 

A-thieving  for  to  go. 
And  catch  the  Carolina  men, 

Or  bring  the  rebels  low. 


The  scamp  had  rang'd  the  country 

In  search  of  royal  aid. 
And  with  his  owls,  perched  on  high, 

He  taught  them  all  his  trade. 

But  ah !  that  fatal  morning, 
When  Shelby  brave  drew  near! 

'T  is  certainly  a  warning 
That  ministers  should  hear. 

And  Campbell,  and  Cleveland, 

And  Colonel  Sevier, 
Each  with  a  band  of  gallant  men, 

To  Ferguson  appear. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  setting 

Behind  the  western  hills, 
Just  then  our  trusty  rifles  sent 

A  dose  of  leaden  pills. 

Up,  up  the  steep  together 
Brave  Williams  led  his  troop. 

And  join'd  by  Winston,  bold  and  true, 
Disturb'd  the  Tory  coop. 

The  royal  slaves,  the  royal  owls. 

Flew  high  on  every  hand; 
But  soon  they  settled  —  gave  a  howl. 

And  quarter'd  to  Cleveland. 

I  would  not  tell  the  number 

Of  Tories  slain  that  day, 
But  surely  it  is  certain 

That  none  did  run  away. 

For  all  that  were  a-living, 

Were  happy  to  give  up; 
So  let  us  make  thanksgiving, 

And  pass  the  bright  tin-cup. 

To  all  the  brave  regiments, 

Let's  toast  'em  for  their  health, 

And  may  our  good  country 
Have  quietude  and  wealth. 


This  brilliant  victory  restored  hope  to  the 
patriots  of  the  South,  and  Cornwallis  soon  found 
himself  in  a  dangerous  position.  He  was  finally 
forced  to  detach  Tarleton,  with  eleven  hundred 
men,  to  attack  Daniel  Morgan's  little  army  of  nine 
hundred  men,  which  was  threatening  his  line  of 
communications.  On  Tarleton's  approach,  Morgan 
retreated  to  a  grazing  ground  known  as  the  Cow- 
pens  near  King's  Mountain,  and  here,  on  January 
17,  1781,  Tarleton  attacked  him,  only  to  be  com 
pletely  routed. 


252 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    COWPENS 

[January  17,  1781] 

To   the  Cowpens  riding  proudly,   boasting 

loudly,  rebels  scorning, 
Tarleton  hurried,  hot  and  eager  for  the  fight ; 
From  the  Cowpens,  sore  confounded,  on  that 

January  morning, 

Tarleton  hurried  somewhat  faster,  fain  to 
save  himself  by  flight. 

In  the  morn  he  scorned  us  rarely,  but  he 

fairly  found  his  error. 
When  his  force  was  made  our  ready  blows 

to  feel; 
When  his  horsemen  and  his  footmen  fled  in 

wild  and  pallid  terror 
At  the  leaping  of  our  bullets  and  the  sweep 
ing  of  our  steel. 

All  the  day  before  we  fled  them,  and  we  led 

them  to  pursue  us, 
Then    at    night   on   Thickety    Mountain 

made  our  camp; 
There  we  lay  upon  our  rifles,  slumber  quickly 

coming  to  us, 

Spite  the  crackling  of  our  camp-fires  and 
our  sentries'  heavy  tramp. 

Morning  on  the  mountain  border  ranged  in 

order  found  our  forces. 
Ere  our  scouts  announced  the  coming  of 

the  foe; 
While  the  hoar-frost  lying  near  us,  and  the 

distant  water-courses, 
Gleamed  like  silver  in  the  sunlight,  seemed 
like  silver  in  their  glow. 

Morgan  ranged  us  there  to  meet  them,  and 

to  greet  them  with  such  favor 
That  they  scarce  would  care  to  follow  us 

again; 
In  the  rear,  the  Continentals  —  none  were 

readier,  nor  braver; 

In  the  van,  with  ready  rifles,  steady,  stern, 
our  mountain  men. 

Washington,  our  trooper  peerless,  gay  and 

fearless,  with  his  forces 
Waiting  panther-like  upon  the  foe  to  fall, 
Formed  upon  the  slope  behind  us,  where,  on 

raw-boned  country  horses, 
Sat  the  sudden-summoned  levies  brought 
from  Georgia  by  M'Call. 


Soon  we  heard  a  distant  drumming,  nearer 

coming,  slow  advancing  — 
It  was  then  upon  the  very  nick  of  nine. 
Soon  upon  the  road  from  Spartanburg  we 

saw  their  bayonets  glancing. 
And  the  morning  sunlight  playing  on  their 
swaying  scarlet  line. 

In  the  distance  seen  so  dimly,  they  looked 

grimly;  coming  nearer, 
There   was   naught   about   them    fearful, 

after  all, 
Until  some  one  near  me  spoke  in  voice  than 

falling  water  clearer, 

"Tarleton's   quarter   is   the   sword-blade, 
Tarleton's  mercy  is  the  ball." 

Then   the  memory  came  unto  me,   heavy, 

gloomy,  of  my  brother 
Who  was  slain  while  asking  quarter  at 

their  hand; 
Of  that  morning  when  was  driven  forth  my 

sister  and  my  mother 
From  our  cabin  in  the  valley  by  the  spoilers 
of  the  knd. 

I  remembered  of  my  brother  slain,  my  mother 

spurned  and  beaten, 
Of  my  sister  in   her  beauty   brought   to 

shame; 
Of  the  wretches'  jeers  and  laughter,  as  from 

mud-sill  up  to  rafter 

Of  the  stripped  and  plundered  cabin  leapt 
the  fierce,  consuming  flame. 

But  that  memory  had  no  power  there  in  that 

hour  there  to  depress  me  — 
No!  it  stirred  within  my  spirit  fiercer  ire; 
And  I  gripped  my  sword-hilt  firmer,  and  my 

arm  and  heart  grew  stronger; 
And  I  longed  to  meet  the  wronger  on  the 
sea  of  steel  and  fire. 

On  they  came,  our  might  disdaining,  where 

the  raining  bullets  leaden 
Pattered  fast  from  scattered  rifles  on  each 

wing; 
Here  and  there  went  down  a  foeman,  and  the 

ground  began  to  redden; 
And  they  drew  them  back  a  moment,  like 
the  tiger  ere  his  spring. 

Then  said  Morgan,  "Ball  and  powder  kill 

much  prouder  men  than  George's; 
On  your  rifles  and  a  careful  aim  rely. 


253 


They  were  trained  in  many  battles  —  we  in 

workshops,  fields,  and  forges; 
But  we  have  our  homes  to  fight  for,  and 
we  do  not  fear  to  die." 

Though  our  leader's  words  we  cheered  not, 

yet  we  feared  not;  we  awaited, 
Strong  of  heart,  the  threatened  onset,  and 

it  came: 
Up  the  sloping  hill-side  swiftly  rushed  the  foe 

so  fiercely  hated; 

On  they  came  with  gleaming  bayonet  'mid 
the  cannon's  smoke  and  Same. 

At  their  head  rode  Tarleton  proudly;  ringing 

loudly  o'er  the  yelling 
Of  his  men  we  heard  his  voice's  brazen  tone ; 
With  his  dark  eyes  flashing  fiercely,  and  his 

sombre  features  telling 
In  their  look  the  pride  that  filled  him  as  the 
champion  of  the  throne. 

On    they    pressed,    when    sudden    flashing, 

ringing,  crashing,  came  the  firing 
Of  our  forward  line  upon  their  close-set 

ranks ; 
Then  at  coming  of  their  steel,  which  moved 

with  steadiness  untiring. 
Fled  our  mountaineers,  re-forming  in  good 
order  on  our  flanks. 

Then  the  combat's  raging  anger,  din,  and 

clangor,  round  and  o'er  us 
Filled  the  forest,  stirred  the  air,  and  shook 

the  ground; 
Charged  with  thunder-tramp  the  horsemen, 

while  their  sabres  shone  before  us, 

Gleaming      lightly,     streaming      brightly, 

through  the  smoky  cloud  around. 

Through    the   pines   and   oaks   resounding, 

madly  bounding  from  the  mountain, 
Leapt  the  rattle  of  the  battle  and  the  roar; 
Fierce  the  hand-to-hand  engaging,  and  the 

human  freshet  raging 
Of  the  surging  current  urging  past  a  dark 
and  bloody  shore. 

Soon  the  course  of  fight  was  altered;  soon 

they  faltered  at  the  leaden 
Storm  that  smote  them,  and  we  saw  their 

centre  swerve. 
Tarleton's  eye  flashed  fierce  in  anger;  Tarle- 

ton's  face  began  to  redden; 
Tarleton  gave  the  closing  order  —  "  Bring 
to  action  the  reserve!" 


Up  the  slope  his  legion  thundered,  full  three 

hundred;  fiercely  spurring, 
Cheering  lustily,  they  fell  upon  our  flanks; 
And  their  worn  and  wearied  comrades,  at  the 

sound  so  spirit-stirring, 
Felt  a  thrill  of  hope  and  courage  pass  along 
their  shattered  ranks. 

By  the  wind  the  smoke-cloud  lifted  lightly 

drifted  to  the  nor'ward, 
And  displayed  in  all  their  pride  the  scarlet 

foe; 
We  beheld  them,  with  a  steady  tramp  and 

fearless,  moving  forward, 
With  their  banners  proudly  waving,  and 
their  bayonets  levelled  low. 

Morgan  gave  his  order  clearly  —  "Fall  back 

nearly  to  the  border 

Of  the  hill  and  let  the  enemy  come  nigher ! " 
Oh !  they  thought  we  had  retreated,  and  they 

charged  in  fierce  disorder, 
When  out   rang  the  voice  of   Howard  — 
"To  the  right  about,  face!  —  Fire!" 

Then  upon  our  very  wheeling  came  the  peal 
ing  of  our  volley, 
And  our  balls  made  red  a  pathway  down 

the  hill; 
Broke  the  foe  and  shrank  and  cowered ;  rang 

again  the  voice  of  Howard  — 
"Give  the  hireling  dogs  the  bayonet!"  — 
and  we  did  it  with  a  will. 

In  the  meanwhile  one  red-coated  troop,  un 
noted,  riding  faster 
Than  their  comrades  on  our  rear  in  fury 

bore; 
But  the  light-horse  led  by  Washington  soon 

brought  it  to  disaster, 
For  they  shattered  it  and  scattered  it,  and 
smote  it  fast  and  sore. 

Like  a  herd  of  startled  cattle  from  the  battle 
field  we  drove  them; 
In  disorder  down  the  Mill-gap  road  they 

fled; 
Tarleton  led  them  in  the  racing,  fast  he  fled 

before  our  chasing. 

And  he  stopped  not  for  the  dying,  and  he 
stayed  not  for  the  dead. 

Down  the  Mill-gap  road  they  scurried  and 

they  hurried  with  such  fleetness  — 
We  had  never  seen  such  running  in  our 
lives ! 


254 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ran  they  swifter  than  if  seeking  homes  to 

taste  domestic  sweetness, 
Having  many  years  been  parted  from  their 
children  and  their  wives. 

Ah !  for  some  no  wife  to  meet  them,  child  to 

greet  them,  friend  to  shield  them! 
To  their  home  o'er  ocean  never  sailing 

back; 
After  them  the  red  avengers,  bitter  hate  for 

death  had  sealed  them, 
Yelped    the    dark    and    red-eyed    sleuth- 
hound  unrelenting  on  their  track. 

In  their  midst  I  saw  one  trooper,  and  around 

his  waist  I  noted 
Tied  a  simple  silken  scarf  of  blue  and 

white; 
When  my  vision  grasped  it  clearly  to  my 

hatred  I  devoted 

Him,  from  all  the  hireling  wretches  who 
were  mingled  there  in  Sight. 

For  that  token  in  the  summer  had  been  from 

our  cabin  taken 
By  the  robber-hands  of  wrongers  of  my 

kin; 
T  was  my  sister's  —  for  the  moment  things 

around  me  were  forsaken; 
I  was  blind  to  fleeing  foemen,  I  was  deaf 
to  battle's  din. 

Olden  comrades  round  me  lying  dead  or  dy 
ing  were  unheeded; 
Vain  to  me  they  looked  for  succor  in  their 

need. 
O'er  the  corses  of  the  soldiers,  through  the 

gory  pools  I  speeded. 
Driving  rowel-deep  my  spurs  within  my 
madly-bounding  steed. 

As  I  came  he  turned,  and  staring  at  my  glar 
ing  eyes  he  shivered ; 
Pallid  fear  went  quickly  o'er  his  features 

grim; 
As  he  grasped  his  sword  in  terror,  every  nerve 

within  him  quivered, 

For  his  guilty  spirit  told  him  why  I  solely 
sought  for  him. 

Though  the  stroke  I  dealt  he  parried,  on 
ward  carried,  down  I  bore  him  — 
Horse   and   rider  —  down   together   went 
the  twain: 


"Quarter!"  —  He!    that  scarf  had  doomed 

him !  stood  a  son  and  brother  o'er  him ; 

Down  through  plume  and  brass  and  leather 

went  my  sabre  to  the  brain  — 
Ha!  no  music  like  that  crushing  through 
the  skull-bone  to  the  brain. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Tarleton's  defeat  deprived  Cornwallis  of  nearly 
a  third  of  his  forces,  and  his  situation  became  more 
desperate  than  ever.  He  kept  on  across  North 
Carolina  and  engaged  Greene  in  an  indecisive 
action  at  Guilford  Court-House  on  March  15,  and 
then  retreated  to  Wilmington.  Greene,  with 
splendid  strategy,  started  at  once  for  South  Caro 
lina,  captured  nearly  all  the  forts  there  in  British 
hands,  and  on  September  8  fell  upon  the  British 
at  Eutaw  Springs,  compelling  them  to  retreat  to 
Charleston. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  EUTAW 

[September  8,  1781J 

HARK  !  't  is  the  voice  of  the  mountain. 

And  it  speaks  to  our  heart  in  its  pride, 
As  it  tells  of  the  bearing  of  heroes 

Who  compassed  its  summits  and  died ! 
How  they  gathered  to  strife  as  the  eagles, 

WThen    the    foeman    had    clambered    the 

height ! 
How,  with  scent  keen  and  eager  as  beagles, 

They  hunted  him  down  for  the  fight. 

Hark !  through  the  gorge  of  the  valley, 

'T  is  the  bugle  that  tells  of  the  foe; 
Our  own  quickly  sounds  for  the  rally, 

And  we  snatch  down  the  rifle  and  go. 
As  the  hunter  who  hears  of  the  panther, 

Each  arms  him  and  leaps  to  his  steed, 
Rides  forth  through  the  desolate  antre, 

With  his  knife  and  his  rifle  at  need. 

From  a  thousand  deep  gorges  they  gather, 

From  the  cot  lowly  perched  by  the  rill, 
The  cabin  half  hid  in  the  heather, 

'Neath  the  crag  which  the    eagle  keeps 

still; 
Each  lonely  at  first  in  his  roaming. 

Till  the  vale  to  the  sight  opens  fair. 
And  he  sees  the  low  cot  through  the  gloam 
ing. 

When  his  bugle  gives  tongue  to  the  air. 

Thus  a  thousand  brave  hunters  assemble 
For  the  hunt  of  the  insolent  foe, 


EUTAW  SPRINGS 


255 


And  soon  shall  his  myrmidons  tremble 
'Neath    the    shock    of    the    thunderbolt's 

blow. 

Down  the  lone  heights  now  wind  they  to 
gether, 

As  the  mountain-brooks  flow  to  the  vale, 
And  now,  as  they  group  on  the  heather, 
The  keen  scout  delivers  his  tale: 

"  The  British  —  the  Tories  are  on  us, 

And  now  is  the  moment  to  prove 
To  the  women  whose  virtues  have  won  us, 

That  our  virtues  are  worthy  their  love! 
They  have  swept  the  vast  valleys  below  us 

With  fire,  to  the  hills  from  the  sea; 
And  here  would  they  seek  to  o'erthrow  us 

In  a  realm  which  our  eagle  makes  free!" 

No  war-council  suffered  to  trifle 

With  the  hours  devote  to  the  deed ; 
Swift  followed  the  grasp  of  the  rifle, 

Swift  followed  the  bound  to  the  steed; 
And  soon,  to  the  eyes  of  our  yeomen, 

All  panting  with  rage  at  the  sight, 
Gleamed  the  long  wavy  tents  of  the  foeman, 

As  he  lay  in' his  camp  on  the  height. 

Grim  dashed  they  away  as  they  bounded, 

The  hunters  to  hem  in  the  prey, 
And,  with  Deckard's  long  rifles  surrounded, 

Then  the  British  rose  fast  to  the  fray; 
And  never  with  arms  of  more  vigor 

Did  their  bayonets  press  through  the  strife. 
Where,  with  every  swift  pull  of  the  trigger, 

The  sharpshooters  dashed  out  a  life ! 

'T  was  the  meeting  of  eagles  and  lions; 

'T  was  the  rushing  of  tempests  and  waves ; 
Insolent  triumph  'gainst  patriot  defiance, 

Born  freemen  'gainst  sycophant  slaves; 
Scotch  Ferguson  sounding  his  whistle, 

As  from  danger  to  danger  he  flies. 
Feels  the  moral  that  lies  in  Scotch  thistle, 

With  its  "touch  me  who  dare'"  and  he 
dies! 

An  hour,  and  the  battle  is  over; 

The  eagles  are  rending  the  prey; 
The  serpents  seek  flight  into  cover, 

But  the  terror  still  stands  in  the  way: 
More  dreadful  the  doom  that  on  treason 

Avenges  the  wrongs  of  the  state; 
And  the  oak-tree  for  many  a  season 

Bears  fruit  for  the  vultures  of  fate ! 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


EUTAW   SPRINGS 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  BRAVE  AMERICANS, 
UNDER  GENERAL  GREENE,  IN  SOOTH  CARO 
LINA,  WHO  FELL  IN  THE  ACTION  OF  SEP 
TEMBER  8,  1781,  AT  EUTAW  SPRINGS 

AT  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died: 

Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er  — 

Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more! 

If  in  this  wreck  of  ruin  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  a  tear, 

O  smite  thy  gentle  breast,  and  say 
The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here! 

Thou  who  shall  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 

Sigh  for  the  wasted,  rural  reign; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds,  sunk  to  rest ! 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn; 

You  too  may  fall  and  ask  a  tear; 
'T  is  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear  — 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  woe; 

The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field; 
Then  rushed  to  meet  the  insulting  foe: 

They    took    the    spear,  —  but    left    the 
shield. 

Led  by  thy  conquering  genius,  Greene, 
The  Britons  they  compelled  to  fly; 

None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain, 
None  grieved,  in  such  a  cause,  to  die  — 

But,  like  the  Parthians  famed  of  old, 
Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw, 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace,  our  patriot  band; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown, 
We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 

PHILIP  FHENEAU. 

Cornwallis,  meanwhile,  had  marched  off  toward 
Virginia,  reaching  Petersburg  May  20,  1781,  join 
ing  the  British  forces  there  and  raising  his  army 
to  five  thousand  men.  He  marched  down  the 
peninsula  and  established  himself  at  Yorktown, 
adding  the  garrison  of  Portsmouth  to  his  army, 
so  that  it  numbered  over  seven  thousand  men. 


256 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  DANCE 

CORNWALLIS  led  a  country  dance, 

The  like  was  never  seen,  sir, 
Much  retrograde  and  much  advance, 

And  all  with  General  Greene,  sir. 

They  rambled  up  and  rambled  down, 
Joined  hands,  then  off  they  run,  sir. 

Our  General  Greene  to  Charlestown, 
The  earl  to  Wilmington,  sir. 

Greene  in  the  South  then  danced  a  set, 

And  got  a  mighty  name,  sir, 
Cornwallis  jigged  with  young  Fayette, 

But  suffered  in  his  fame,  sir. 

Then  down  he  figured  to  the  shore, 

Most  like  a  lordly  dancer, 
And  on  his  courtly  honor  swore 

He  would  no  more  advance,  sir. 

Quoth  he,  my  guards  are  weary  grown 

With  footing  country  dances, 
They  never  at  St.  James's  shone, 

At  capers,  kicks,  or  prances. 

Though  men  so  gallant  ne'er  were  seen,  • 
While  sauntering  on  parade,  sir, 

Or  wriggling  p'er  the  park's  smooth  green. 
Or  at  a  masquerade,  sir. 

Yet  are  red  heels  and  long-laced  skirts. 
For  stumps  and  briars  meet,  sir  ? 

Or  stand  they  chance  with  hunting-shirts, 
Or  hardy  veteran  feet,  sir? 

Now  housed  in  York,  he  challenged  all, 

At  minuet  or  all  'amande, 
And  lessons  for  a  courtly  ball 

His  guards  by  day  and  night  conned. 

This  challenge  known,  full  soon  there  came 

A  set  who  had  the  bon  ton, 
De  Grasse  and  Rochambeau,  whose  fame 

Fut  brillant  pour  un  long  terns. 

And  Washington,  Columbia's  son, 

Whom  easy  nature  taught,  sir, 
That  grace  which  can't  by  pains  be  won, 

Or  Plutus's  gold  be  bought,  sir. 

Now  hand  in  hand  they  circle  round 
This  ever-dancing  peer,  sir; 


Their  gentle  movements  soon  confound 
The  earl  as  they  draw  near,  sir. 

His  music  soon  forgets  to  play  — 
His  feet  can  move  no  more,  sir, 

And  all  his  bands  now  curse  the  day 
They  jigged  to  our  shore,  sir. 

Now  Tories  all,  what  can  ye  say  ? 

Come  —  is  not  this  a  griper, 
That  while  your  hopes  are  danced  away, 

'T  is  you  must  pay  the  piper  ? 

Here  an  unexpected  factor  entered  upon  the 
scene.  A  magnificent  French  fleet  under  Count  de 
Grasse  had  sailed  for  the  Chesapeake,  and  Wash 
ington,  with  a  daring  worthy  of  Caesar  or  Napoleon, 
decided  to  transfer  his  army  from  the  Hudson  to 
Virginia  and  overwhelm  Cornwallis.  On  August 
19  Washington's  army  crossed  the  Hudson  at 
King's  Ferry  and  started  on  its  four  hundred 
mile  march.  On  September  18  it  appeared  before 
Yorktown.  The  French  squadron  was  already  on 
the  scene,  and  Cornwallis  was  in  the  trap.  There 
was  no  escape.  On  October  1 7  he  hoisted  the  white 
flag,  and  two  days  later  the  British  army,  over 
seven  thousand  in  number,  laid  down  its  arms. 

CORNWALLIS'S  SURRENDER 

[October  19,  1781] 

WHEN  British  troops  first  landed  here. 

With  Howe  commander  o'er  them, 
They  thought    they'd   make  us   quake  for 
fear, 

And  carry  all  before  them; 
With  thirty  thousand  men  or  more, 

And  she  without  assistance, 
America  must  needs  give  o'er. 

And  make  no  more  resistance. 

But  Washington,  her  glorious  son, 

Of  British  hosts  the  terror, 
Soon,  by  repeated  overthrows, 

Convinc'd  them  of  their  error; 
Let  Princeton,  and  let  Trenton  tell, 

What  gallant  deeds  he's  done,  sir, 
And  Monmouth's  plains  where  hundreds  fell, 

And  thousands  more  have  run,  sir. 

Cornwallis,  too,  when  he  approach'd 

Virginia's  old  dominion, 
Thought  he  would  soon  her  conqu'ror  be; 

And  so  was  North's  opinion. 
From  State  to  State  with  rapid  stride, 

His  troops  had  march'd  before,  sir, 


NEWS    FROM   YORKTOWN 


257 


Till  quite  elate  with  martial  pride, 
He  thought  all  dangers  o'er,  sir. 

But  our  allies,  to  his  surprise, 

Th3  Chesapeake  had  enter'd; 
And  now  too  late,  he  curs'd  his  fate, 

And  wish'd  he  ne'er  had  ventur'd, 
For  Washington  no  sooner  knew 

The  visit  he  had  paid  her. 
Than  to  his  parent  State  he  flew, 

To  crush  the  bold  invader. 

When  he  sat  down  before  the  town, 

His  Lordship  soon  surrender'd; 
His  martial  pride  he  laid  aside. 

And  cas'd  the  British  standard; 
Gods!  how  this  stroke  will  North  provoke, 

And  all  his  thoughts  confuse,  sir! 
And  how  the  Peers  will  hang  their  ears, 

When  first  they  hear  the  news,  sir. 

Be  peace,  the  glorious  end  of  war, 

By  this  event  effected; 
And  be  the  name  of  Washington 

To  latest  times  respected; 
Then  let  us  toast  America, 

And  France  in  union  with  her; 
And  may  Great  Britain  rue  the  day 

Her  hostile  bands  came  hither. 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  CORNWALLIS 

COME,  all  ye  bold  Americans,  to  you  the  truth 

I  tell, 
'T  is  of  a  sad  disaster,  which  late  on  Britain 

fell; 
'T  was  near  the  height  of  Old   Yorktown, 

where  the  cannons  loud  did  roar, 
A  summons  to  Cornwallis,  to  fight  or  else  give 

o'er. 

A  summons  to  surrender  was  sent  unto  the 

lord, 
Which  made  him  feel  like  poor  Burgoyne 

and  quickly  draw  his  sword. 
Saying,  "Must  I  give  o'er  those  glittering 

troops,  those  ships  and  armies  too. 
And  yield  to  General  Washington,  and  his 

brave  noble  crew  ? " 

A  council  to  surrender  this  lord  did  then  com 
mand; 

"What  say  you,  my  brave  heroes,  to  yield 
you  must  depend; 


Don't  you  hear  the  bomb-shells  flying,  boys, 
and  the  thundering  cannon's  roar? 

De  Grasse  is  in  the  harbor,  and  Washing 
ton's  on  shore." 

'T  was  on  the  nineteenth  of  October,  in  the 
year  of  '81, 

Cornwallis  did  surrender  to  General  Wash 
ington  ; 

Six  thousand  chosen  British  troops  march'd 
out  and  grounded  arms; 

Huzza,  ye  bold  Americans,  for  now  sweet 
music  charms. 

Six  thousand  chosen  British  troops  to  Wash 
ington  resign'd, 

Besides  some  thousand  Hessians  that  could 
not  stay  behind; 

Both  refugees  and  Tories  all,  when  the  devil 
gets  his  due, 

O  now  we  have  got  thousands,  boys,  but  then 
we  should  have  few. 

Unto  New  York  this  lord  has  gone,  surren 
dering  you  see, 

And  for  to  write  these  doleful  lines  unto  his 
majesty ; 

For  to  contradict  those  lines,  which  he  before 
had  sent, 

That  he  and  his  brave  British  crew  were  con 
querors  where  they  went. 

Here's  a  health  to  General  Washington,  and 

his  brave  noble  crew. 
Likewise  unto  De  Grasse,  and  all  that  liberty 

pursue ; 
May  they  scourge  these  bloody  tyrants,  all 

from  our  Yankee  shore. 
And  with  the  arms  of  Freedom  cause  the 

wars  they  are  all  o'er. 


"Early  on  a  dark  morning  of  the  fourth  week 
in  October,  an  honest  old  German,  slowly  pacing 
the  streets  of  Philadelphia  on  his  night  watch, 
began  shouting,  'Basht  dree  o'glock,  und  Gorn- 
vallis  ish  dakendt!'  and  light  sleepers  sprang  out 
of  bed  and  threw  up  their  windows."  The  whole 
country  burst  into  jubilation  at  the  news,  and 
every  village  green  was  ablaze  with  bonfires. 

NEWS  FROM  YORKTOWN 

OCTOBER,  1781 

"PAST  two  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken." 
How  the  voice  rolled  down  the  street 


258 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Till  the  silence  rang  and  echoed 

With  the  stir  of  hurrying  feet! 
In  the  hush  of  the  Quaker  city, 

As  the  night  drew  on  to  morn, 
How  it  startled  the  troubled  sleepers, 

Like  the  cry  for  a  man-child  born! 

"Past  two  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken." 

How  they  gathered,  man  and  maid, 
Here  the  child  with  a  heart  for  the  flint-lock, 

There  the  trembling  grandsire  staid! 
From  the  stateliest  homes  of  the  city. 

From  hovels  that  love  might  scorn, 
How  they  followed  that  ringing  summons. 

Like  the  cry  for  a  king's  heir  born ! 

"Past  two  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken." 

I  can  see  the  quick  lights  flare, 
See  the  glad,  wild  face  at  the  window, 

Half  dumb  in  a  breathless  stare. 
In  the  pause  of  an  hour  portentous, 

In  the  gloom  of  a  hope  forlorn, 
How  it  throbbed  to  the  star-deep  heavens, 

Like  the  cry  for  a  nation  born ! 

"Past  two  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken." 

How  the  message  is  sped  and  gone 
To  the  farm  and  the  town  and  the  forest 

Till  the  world  was  one  vast  dawn! 
To  distant  and  slave-sunk  races, 

Bowed  down  in  their  chains  that  morn, 
How  it  swept  on  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Like  a  cry  for  God's  justice  born ! 

LEWIS  WORTHINGTON   SMITH. 


AN  ANCIENT  PROPHECY 

(Written  soon  after  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis) 

WHEN  a  certain  great  King,  whose  initial  is  G., 
Forces  stamps  upon  paper  and  folks  to  drink 
tea; 


When  these  folks  burn  his  tea  and  stampt- 

paper,  like  stubble, 
You  may  guess  that  this  King  is  then  coming 

to  trouble. 

But  when  a  Petition  he  treads  under  feet, 

And  sends  over  the  ocean  an  army  and 
fleet. 

When  that  army,  half  famished,  and  frantic 
with  rage, 

Is  cooped  up  with  a  leader  whose  name 
rhymes  to  cage  ; 

When  that  leader  goes  home,  dejected  and 
sad; 

You  may  then  be  assur'd  the  King's  pros 
pects  are  bad. 

But  when  B.  and  C.  with  their  armies  are 
taken 

This  King  will  do  well  if  he  saves  his  own 
bacon: 

In  the  year  Seventeen  hundred  and  eighty 
and  two 

A  stroke  he  shall  get,  that  will  make  him  look 
blue; 

And  soon,  very  soon,  shall  the  season  ar 
rive. 

When  Nebuchadnezzar  to  pasture  shall  drive. 

In  the  year  eighty-three,  the  affair  will  be 
over 

And  he  shall  eat  turnips  that  grow  in  Han 
over; 

The  face  of  the  Lion  will  then  become  pale. 

He  shall  yield  fifteen  teeth  and  be  sheared  of 
his  tail  — 

O  King,  my  dear  King,  you  shall  be  very 
sore. 

From  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes  you  will 
mercy  implore, 

And  your  Lion  shall  growl,  but  hardly  bite 
more.  — 

PHILIP  FRENEATJ. 


ON  SIR  HENRY  CLINTON'S   RECALL 


259 


CHAPTER  XI 


PEACE 


The  news  of  Cornwallis's  surrender  was  received 
with  consternation  in  Great  Britain.  The  King 
declared  that  he  would  abdicate  rather  than 
acknowledge  the  independence  of  the  United 
States,  Lord  North  resigned,  Lord  Germaine  was 
dismissed ,  and  Sir  Henry  Clinton  was  superseded 
in  command  of  the  army  by  Sir  Guy  Carleton. 


ON  SIR  HENRY  CLINTON'S  RECALL 

[May,  1782] 

THE  dog  that  is  beat  has  a  right  to  com 

plain  — 

Sir  Harry  returns,  a  disconsolate  swain, 
To  the  face  of  his  master,  the  devil's  anointed, 
To  the  country  provided  for  thieves  disap 

pointed. 

Our  freedom,  he  thought,  to  a  tyrant  must 

fall: 
He  concluded  the  weakest  must  go  to  the 

wall. 

The  more  he  was  flatter'd,  the  bolder  he  grew  : 
He  quitted  the  old  world  to  conquer  the  new. 

But  in  spite  of  the  deeds  he  has  done  in  his 

garrison 
(And  they  have  been  curious  beyond  all  com 

parison), 

He  now  must  go  home,  at  the  call  of  his  king, 
To  answer  the  charges  that  Arnold  may  bring. 

But  what  are  the  acts  which  this  chief  has 

achieved  ? 

If  good,  it  is  hard  he  should  now  be  aggrieved  : 
And  the  more,  as  he  fought  for  his  national 


Nor  valued,  a  farthing,  the  right  of  the  story. 

This  famous  great  man,  and  two  birds  of  his 

feather, 

In  the  Cerberus  frigate  came  over  together  : 
But  of  all  the  bold  chiefs  that  remeasure  the 

trip, 
Not  two  have  been  known  to  return  in  one 

ship. 

Like  children  that  wrestle  and  scuffle  in  sport, 
They  are  very  well  pleased  as  long  as  unhurt  ; 


But  a  thump  on  the  nose,  or  a  blow  in  the  eye, 
Ends  the  fray;  and  they  go  to  their  daddy 
and  cry. 

Sir  Clinton,  thy  deeds  have  been  mighty  and 


many 


You  said  all  our  paper  was  not  worth  a  penny : 
('T  is  nothing  but  rags,  quoth  honest  Will 

Tryon: 
Are  rags  to  discourage  the  sons  of  the  lion  ?) 

But  Clinton  thought  thus:  "It  is  folly  to  fight, 
When  things  may  by  easier  methods  come 

right : 

There  is  such  an  art  as  counterfeit-ation, 
And  I  '11  do  my  utmost  to  honor  our  nation : 

"I'll  show  this  damn'd  country  that  I  can 
enslave  her, 

And  that  by  the  help  of  a  skilful  engraver ; 

And  then  let  the  rebels  take  care  of  their 
bacon; 

We'll  play  'em  a  trick,  or  I'm  vastly  mis 
taken." 

But  the  project  succeeded  not  quite  to  your 
liking ; 

So  you  paid  off  your  artist,  and  gave  up  bill- 
striking  : 

But  't  is  an  affair  I  am  glad  you  are  quit  on : 

You  had  surely  been  hang'd  had  you  tried  it 
in  Britain. 

At  the  taking  of  Charlestown  you  cut  a  great 

figure, 
The  terms  you  propounded  were  terms  full 

of  rigor, 

Yet  could  not  foresee  poor  Charley's  disgrace. 
Nor  how  soon  your  own  colors  would  go  to 

the  case. 

When  the  town  had  surrender'd,  the  more 
to  disgrace  ye 

(Like  another  true  Briton  that  did  it  at 
'Statia). 

You  broke  all  the  terms  yourself  had  ex 
tended, 

Because  you  supposed  the  rebellion  was 
ended. 


260 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Whoever  the  Tories  mark'd  out  as  a  Whig, 
If  gentle,  or  simple,  or  little,  or  big, 
No  matter  to  you  —  to  kill  'em  and  spite  'em, 
You  soon  had  'em  up  where  the  dogs  could  n't 
bite  'em. 

Then,  thinking  these  rebels  were  snug  and 

secure, 
You  left  them  to  Rawdon  and  Nesbit  Bal- 

four 
(The  face  of  the  latter  no  mask  need  be 

draw'd  on, 
And  to  fish  for  the  devil,  my  bait  should  be 

Rawdon). 

Returning  to  York  with  your  ships  and  your 

plunder, 
And  boasting  that  rebels  must  shortly  knock 

under. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  you  as  soon  as  you 

landed 
Was  the  fortress  at  West  Point  where  Arnold 

commanded. 

Thought  you,  "If  friend  Arnold  this  fort  will 
deliver, 

We  then  shall  be  masters  of  all  Hudson's 
river ; 

The  east  and  the  south  losing  communication, 

The  Yankees  will  die  by  the  act  of  starva 
tion." 

So  off  you  sent  Andre  (not  guided  by  Pallas), 
Who  soon  purchased  Arnold,  and  with  him 

the  gallows; 
Your  loss,  I  conceive,  than  your  gain  was  far 

greater, 
You  lost  a  good  fellow  and  got  a  damn'd 

traitor. 

Now  Carleton  comes  over  to  give  you  relief; 
A  knight,  like  yourself,  and  commander-in- 

chief; 
But  the  chief  he  will  get,  you  may  tell  the  dear 

honey. 
Will  be  a  black  eye,  hard  knocks,  and  no 

money. 

Now,   with   "Britons,   strike  home!"   your 

sorrows  dispel; 

Away  to  your  master,  and  honestly  tell, 
That  his  arms  and  his  artists  can  nothing 

avail ; 
His  men  are  too  few,  and  his  tricks  are  too 

stale. 


Advise  him,  at  length  to  be  just  and  sincere, 
Of  which  not  a  symptom  as  yet  doth  appear; 
As  we  plainly  perceive  from  his  sending  Sir 

Guy, 
Commission'd  to  steal,  and  commission'd  to 

lie. 
Freeman's  Journal,  May  22,  1782. 


George  III  also  declared  that  he  would  retain 
the  cities  of  New  York  and  Charleston  at  all 
hazards,  but  it  was  soon  out  of  his  power  to  retain 
Charleston,  at  least.  General  Leslie,  in  command 
there,  found  himself  in  dire  straits  for  supplies, 
and  on  December  14,  1782,  evacuated  the  city 
and  sailed  away  for  Halifax. 


ON   THE    DEPARTURE   OF   THE 
BRITISH  FROM  CHARLESTON 

[December  14,  1782] 

His  triumphs  of  a  moment  done; 
His  race  of  desolation  run, 
The  Briton,  yielding  to  his  fears, 
To  other  shores  with  sorrow  steers: 

To  other  shores  —  and  coarser  climes 
He  goes,  reflecting  on  his  crimes, 
His  broken  oaths,  a  murder 'd  Hayne, 
And  blood  of  thousands,  spilt  in  vain. 

To  Cooper's  stream,  advancing  slow, 
Ashley  no  longer  tells  his  woe, 
No  longer  mourns  his  limpid  flood 
Discolor'd  deep  with  human  blood. 

Lo!  where  those  social  streams  combine 
Again  the  friends  of  Freedom  join; 
And,  while  they  stray  where  once  they  bled, 
Rejoice  to  find  their  tyrants  fled, 

Since  memory  paints  that  dismal  day 
When  British  squadrons  held  the  sway, 
And  circling  close  on  every  side, 
By  sea  and  land  retreat  deny'd  — 

Shall  she  recall  that  mournful  scene, 
And  not  the  virtues  of  a  GREENE, 
Who  great  in  war  —  in  danger  try'd, 
Has  won  the  day,  and  crush'd  their  pride. 

Through  barren  wastes  and  ravag'd  lands 
He  led  his  bold  undaunted  bands, 
Through  sickly  climes  his  standard  bore 
Where  never  army  marched  before: 


ON  THE  BRITISH  KING'S  SPEECH 


261 


By  fortitude,  with  patience  join'd 
(The  virtues  of  a  noble  mind), 
He  spread,  where'er  our  wars  are  known, 
His  country's  honor  and  his  own. 

Like  Hercules,  his  generous  plan 
Was  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  men; 
Like  him,  accustom'd  to  subdue, 
He  freed  a  world  from  monsters  too. 

Through  every  want  and  every  ill 

We  saw  him  persevering  still. 

Through  Autumn's  damps  and    Summer's 

heat, 
Till  his  great  purpose  was  complete. 

Like  the  bold  eagle,  from  the  skies 
That  stoops,  to  seize  his  trembling  prize, 
He  darted  on  the  slaves  of  kings 
At  Camden  heights  and  Eutaw  Springs. 

Ah !  had  our  friends  that  led  the  fray 
Surviv'd  the  ruins  of  that  day, 
We  should  not  damp  our  joy  with  pain, 
Nor,  sympathizing,  now  complain. 

Strange !  that  of  those  who  nobly  dare 
Death  always  claims  so  large  a  share, 
That  those  of  virtue  most  refin'd 
Are  soonest  to  the  grave  consign'd !  — 

But  fame  is  theirs  —  and  future  da"ys 
On  pillar'd  brass  shall  tell  their  praise; 
Shall  tell  —  when  cold  neglect  is  dead  — 
"These  for  their  country  fought  and  bled." 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


However  the  King  might  froth  and  bluster,  it 
was  evident  that  he  was  beaten.  He  was  forced 
to  bow  to  the  inevitable,  and  on  December  5, 
1782,  in  his  speech  at  the  opening  of  Parliament, 
he  recommended  that  peace  be  made  with  the 
colonies  in  America,  and  that  they  be  declared 
free  and  independent. 

ON   THE   BRITISH   KING'S  SPEECH 

RECOMMENDING    PEACE    WITH    THE    AMERI 
CAN   STATES 

[December  5,  1782] 

GROWN  sick  of  war,  and  war's  alarms, 
Good  George  has  changed  his  note  at  last  — 

Conquest  and  death  have  lost  their  charms; 
He  and  his  nation  stand  aghast, 


To  think  what  fearful  lengths  they've 

gone, 
And  what  a  brink  they  stand  upon. 

Old  Bute  and  North,  twin  sons  of  hell, 

If  you  advised  him  to  retreat 
Before  our  vanquished  thousands  fell, 
Prostrate,  submissive  at  his  feet: 
Awake  once  more  his  latent  flame, 
And  bid  us  yield  you  all  you  claim. 

The  Macedonian  wept  and  sighed 

Because  no  other  world  was  found 
Where  he  might  glut  his  rage  and  pride, 
And  by  its  ruin  be  renowned; 

The  world  that  Sawney  wished  to  view 
George  fairly  had  —  and  lost  it  too ! 

Let  jarring  powers  make  war  or  peace, 

Monster !  —  no  peace  can  greet  your  breast ! 
Our  murdered  friends  can  never  cease 
To  hover  round  and  break  your  rest! 
The  Furies  will  your  bosom  tear, 
Remorse,  distraction,  and  despair 
And  hell,  with  all  its  fiends,  be  there! 

Cursed  be  the  ship  that  e'er  sets  sail 

Hence,  freighted  for  your  odious  shore; 
May  tempests  o'er  her  strength  prevail, 

Destruction  round  her  roar! 
May  Nature  all  her  aids  deny, 

The  sun  refuse  his  light, 
The  needle  from  its  object  fly. 
No  star  appear  by  night: 
Till    the    base    pilot,   conscious  of  his 

crime, 

Directs  the  prow  to  some  more  Christian 
clime. 

Genius!  that  first  our  race  designed, 

To  other  kings  impart 
The  finer  feelings  of  the  mind, 

The  virtues  of  the  heart; 
Whene'er  the  honors  of  a  throne 

Fall  to  the  bloody  and  the  base, 
Like  Britain's  tyrant,  pull  them  down, 

Like  his,  be  their  disgrace! 

Hibernia,  seize  each  native  right! 

Neptune,  exclude  him  from  the  main; 
Like  her  that  sunk  with  all  her  freight, 
The  Royal  George,  take  all  his  fleet, 

And  never  let  them  rise  again; 
Confine  him  to  his  gloomy  isle, 

Let  Scotland  rule  her  half, 


262 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Spare  him  to  curse  his  fate  awhile, 
And  Whitehead,  thou  to  write  his  epitaph. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


ENGLAND    AND    AMERICA   IN    1782 

O  Tno0,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 
Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 

Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee! 

What  wonder  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  had'st  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought,  — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood! 

But  thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  black, 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine  —  the  single  note 
From    that    deep    chord    which    Hampden 

smote 
Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

A  preliminary  treaty  of  peace  was  finally  agreed 
upon.  Carleton  received  orders  to  evacuate  New 
York,  and  on  October  18,  1783,  Congress  issued  a 
general  order  disbanding  the  American  army. 

ON  DISBANDING  THE  ARMY 

[October  18,  1783] 

YE  brave  Columbian  bands !  a  long  farewell ! 
Well  have  ye  fought  for  freedom  —  nobly 

done 
Your    martial    task  —  the    meed    immortal 

won  — 
And  Time's  last  records  shall  your  triumphs 

tell. 

Once  friendship  made  their  cup  of  suff' rings 

sweet  — 
The  dregs  how  bitter,  now  those  bands  must 

part! 
Ah!   never,  never  more  on  earth  to  meet; 


DistilPd  from  gall  that  inundates  the  heart, 
What  tears  from  heroes'  eyes  are  seen  to 
start! 

Ye,  too,  farewell,  who  fell  in  fields  of  gore, 
And  chang'd  tempestuous  toil  for  rest  serene ; 
Soon  shall  we  join  you  on  the  peaceful  shore 
(Though  gulfs  irremeable  roll  between), 
Thither  by  death-tides  borne,  as  ye  full  soon 
have  been. 

DAVID  HUMPHREYS. 


November  25  was  fixed  upon  as  the  date  for 
the  evacuation  of  New  York.  Early  on  that  day, 
Carleton  got  his  troops  on  shipboard,  and  by  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon  the  city  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  Americans.  The  song  which  is  given 
was  composed  for  and  sung  upon  this  occasion. 


EVACUATION    OF    NEW    YORK    B\ 
THE  BRITISH 

[November  25,  1783J 

THEY    come !  —  they    come !  —  the    heroe? 

come 

With  sounding  fife,  with  thundering  drum; 
Their  ranks  advance  in  bright  array,  — 
The  heroes  of  America! 

He  comes !  —  't  is  mighty  Washington 
(Words  fail  to  tell  all  he  has  done), 
Our  hero,  guardian,  father,  friend! 
His  fame  can  never,  never  end. 

He  comes !  —  he  comes !  —  our  Clinton  comes ! 
Justice  her  ancient  seat  resumes: 
From  shore  to  shore  let  shouts  resound, 
For  Justice  comes,  with  Freedom  crown'd. 

She  comes !  —  the  angelic  virgin  —  Peace, 
And  bids  stern  War  his  horrors  cease; 
Oh !  blooming  virgin,  with  us  stay, 
And  bless,  oh!   bless  America. 

Since  Freedom  has  our  efforts  crown'd, 
Let  flowing  bumpers  pass  around: 
The  toast  is,  "Freedom's  favorite  son, 
Health,  peace,  and  joy  to  Washington!" 

On  Thursday,  December  4,  the  principal  officers 
of  the  army  assembled  at  Fraunce's  Tavern  to 
take  a  final  leave  of  their  beloved  chief.  A  few 
days  later,  at  Annapolis,  Washington  resigned  his 
commission,  and  betook  himself  to  the  quiet  of 
his  estate  at  Mount  Vernon. 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON'S   ARRIVAL   IN   PHILADELPHIA     263 


OCCASIONED  BY  GENERAL  WASH 
INGTON'S  ARRIVAL  IN  PHILA 
DELPHIA,  ON  HIS  WAY  TO  HIS 
RESIDENCE  IN  VIRGINIA 

[December,  1783J 

THE  great  unequal  conflict  past, 

The  Briton  banished  from  our  shore, 
Peace,  heaven-descended,  comes  at  last, 
And  hostile  nations  rage  no  more; 
From  fields  of  death  the  weary  swain 
Returning,  seeks  his  native  plain. 

In  every  vale  she  smiles  serene. 

Freedom's  bright  stars  more  radiant  rise, 
New  charms  she  adds  to  every  scene, 
Her  brighter  sun  illumes  our  skies. 
Remotest  realms  admiring  stand, 
And  hail  the  Hero  of  our  land: 

He  comes !  —  the  Genius  of  these  lands  — 
Fame's  thousand  tongues  his  worth  con 
fess, 

Who  conquer'd  with  his  suffering  bands. 
And  grew  immortal  by  distress: 

Thus  calms  succeed  the  stormy  blast, 
And  valor  is  repaid  at  last. 

O  WASHINGTON!  —  thrice  glorious  name, 

What  due  rewards  can  man  decree  — 
Empires  are  far  below  thy  aim. 

And  sceptres  have  no  charms  for  thee; 
Virtue  alone  has  your  regard. 
And  she  must  be  your  great  reward. 

Encircled  by  extorted  power, 

Monarchs  must  envy  your  Retreat 
Who  cast,  in  some  ill-fated  hour, 

Their  country's  freedom  at  their  feet; 
*T  was  yours  to  act  a  nobler  part, 
For  injur'd  Freedom  had  your  heart. 

For  ravag'd  realms  and  conquer'd  seas 
Rome  gave  the  great  imperial  prize. 
And,  swell'd  with  pride,  for  feats  like  these, 
Transferr'd  her  heroes  to  the  skies:  — 
A  brighter  scene  your  deeds  display. 
You  gain  those  heights  a  different  way. 

When  Faction  rear'd  her  bristly  head, 
And  join'd  with  tyrants  to  destroy. 
Where'er  you  march  d  the  monster  fled, 
Timorous  her  arrows  to  employ: 

Hosts  catch'd  from  you  a  bolder  flame, 
And  despots  trembled  at  your  name. 


Ere  war's  dread  horrors  ceas'd  to  reign. 

What  leader  could  your  place  supply  ?  — 
Chiefs  crowded  to  the  embattled  plain, 
Prepar'd  to  conquer  or  to  die  — 
Heroes  arose  —  but  none,  like  you, 
Could  save  our  lives  and  freedom  too. 

In  swelling  verse  let  kings  be  read, 

And  princes  shine  in  polish'd  prose; 
Without  such  aid  your  triumphs  spread 
Where'er  the  convex  ocean  flows. 
To  Indian  worlds  by  seas  embrac'd, 
And  Tartar,  tyrant  of  the  waste. 

Throughout  the  east  you  gain  applause, 

And  soon  the  Old  World,  taught  by  you, 
Shall  blush  to  own  her  barbarous  laws, 
Shall  learn  instruction  from  the  New. 
Monarchs  shall  hear  the  humble  plea, 
Nor  urge  too  far  the  proud  decree. 

Despising  pomp  and  vain  parade, 

At  home  you  stay,  while  France  and  Spain 
The  secret,  ardent  wish  convey'd. 

And  hail'd  you  to  their  shores  in  vain: 
In  Vernons  groves  you  shun  the  throne, 
Admir'd  by  kings,  but  seen  by  none. 

Your  fame,  thus  spread  to  distant  lands. 

May  envy's  fiercest  blasts  endure, 
Like  Egypt's  pyramids  it  stands, 
Built  on  a  basis  more  secure; 
Time's  latest  age  shall  own  in  you 
The  patriot  and  the  statesman  too. 

Now  hurrying  from  the  busy  scene, 

Where  thy  Potowmack's  waters  flow, 
May'st  thou  enjoy  thy  rural  reign, 
And  every  earthly  blessing  know; 

Thus    he,  who    Rome's  proud    legions 

sway'd, 
Return'd,  and  sought  his  sylvan  shade. 

Not  less  in  wisdom  than  in  war 

Freedom  shall  still  employ  your  mind, 
Slavery  must  vanish,  wide  and  far. 
Till  not  a  trace  is  left  behind; 

Your  counsels  not  bestow'd  in  vain, 
Shall  still  protect  this  infant  reign. 

So,  when  the  bright,  all-cheering  sun 

From  our  contracted  view  retires. 
Though  folly  deems  his  race  is  run, 
On  other  worlds  he  lights  his  fires: 

Cold  climes  beneath  his  influence  glow, 
And  frozen  rivers  learn  to  flow. 


264 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


O  say,  thou  great,  exalted  name! 

What  Muse  can  boast  of  equal  lays, 

Thy  worth  disdains  all  vulgar  fame, 

Transcends  the  noblest  poet's  praise. 

Art  soars,  unequal  to  the  flight. 

And  genius  sickens  at  the  height. 

For  States  redeem'd  —  our  western  reign 

Restor'd  by  thee  to  milder  sway, 
Thy  conscious  glory  shall  remain 
When  this  great  globe  is  swept  away 
And  all  is  lost  that  pride  admires, 
And  all  the  pageant  scene  expires. 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


Early  in  January,  word  reached  America  that 
the  definite  treaty  of  peace  had  been  signed  at 
Paris  on  November  30,  1783.  The  independence 
of  the  United  States  was  acknowledged;  the 
Mississippi  was  set  as  the  western  boundary  of 
the  country,  the  St.  Croix  and  the  Great  Lakes 
as  the  northern,  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  as  the 
southern.  On  January  14,  1784,  this  treaty  was 
ratified  by  Congress. 


THE   AMERICAN   SOLDIER'S  HYMN 

*T  is  God  that  girds  our  armor  on, 
And  all  our  just  designs  fulfils; 
Through  Him  our  feet  can  swiftly  run. 
And  nimbly  climb  the  steepest  hills. 

Lessons  of  war  from  Him  we  take. 
And  manly  weapons  learn  to  wield; 
Strong  bows  of  steel  with  ease  we  break, 
Forced  by  our  stronger  arms  to  yield. 

T  is  God  that  still  supports  our  right, 
His  just  revenge  our  foes  pursues; 
*T  is  He  that  with  resistless  might. 
Fierce  nations  to  His  power  subdues. 

Our  universal  safeguard  He! 
From  Whom  our  lasting  honors  flow; 
He  made  us  great,  and  set  us  free 
From  our  remorseless  bloody  foe. 

Therefore  to  celebrate  His  fame, 
Our  grateful  voice  to  Heaven  we'll  raise; 
And  nations,  strangers  to  His  name, 
Shall  thus  be  taught  to  sing  His  praise. 


A  day  of  solemn  thanksgiving  was  set  apart 
and  universally  observed  throughout  the  country, 
which  set  its  face  toward  the  future,  w.th  a  heart 
full  of  hope  and  high  resolve. 


THANKSGIVING  HYMN 

THE  Lord  above,  in  tender  love, 
Hath  sav'd  us  from  our  foes; 

Through  Washington  the  thing  is  done, 
The  war  is  at  a  close. 

America  has  won  the  day, 

Through  Washington,  our  chief; 

Come  let's  rejoice  with  heart  and  voice, 
And  bid  adieu  to  grief. 

Now  we  have  peace,  and  may  increase 
In  number,  wealth,  and  arts, 

If  every  one,  like  Washington, 
Will  strive  to  do  their  parts. 

Then  let's  agree,  since  we  are  free, 

All  needless  things  to  shun; 
And  lay  aside  all  pomp  and  pride, 

Like  our  great  Washington. 

Use  industry,  and  frugal  be, 
Like  Washington  the  brave; 

So  shall  we  see,  't  will  easy  be, 
Our  country  for  to  save, 

From  present  wars  and  future  foes, 

And  all  that  we  may  fear; 
While  Washington,  the  great  brave  one, 

Shall  as  our  chief  appear. 

Industry  and  frugality 

Will  all  our  taxes  pay; 
In  virtuous  ways,  we'll  spend  our  days, 

And  for  our  rulers  pray. 

The  Thirteen  States,  united  sets, 

In  Congress  simply  grand; 
The  Lord  himself  preserve  their  health, 

That  they  may  rule  the  land. 

Whilst  every  State,  without  its  mate, 

Doth  rule  itself  by  laws. 
Will  sovereign  be,  and  always  free; 

To  grieve  there  is  no  cause. 

But  all  should  try,  both  low  and  high, 
.  Our  freedom  to  maintain; 
Pray  God  to  bless  our  grand  Congress, 
And  cease  from  every  sin. 

Then  sure  am  I,  true  liberty 

Of  every  sort  will  thrive; 
With  one  accord  we'll  praise  the  Lord, 

All  glory  to  Him  give. 


LAND   OF  THE  WILFUL    GOSPEL 


265 


To  whom  all  praise  is  due  always, 

For  He  is  all  in  all; 
George  Washington,  that  noble  one, 

On  His  great  name  doth  call. 

Our  Congress  too,  before  they  do, 
Acknowledge  Him  supreme; 

Come  let  us  all  before  Him  fall. 
And  glorify  His  name. 


LAND   OF   THE   WILFUL    GOSPEL1 

From  "Psalm  of  the  West  " 

LAND  of  the  Wilful  Gospel,  thou  worst  and 

thou  best; 
Tall  Adam  of  lands,  new-made  of  the  dust 

of  the  West; 
Thou  wroughtest  alone  in  the  Garden  of  God, 

unblest 
Till  He  fashioned  lithe  Freedom  to  lie  for 

thine  Eve  on  thy  breast  — 
Till  out  of  thy  heart's  dear  neighborhood, 

out  of  thy  side, 
He  fashioned  an  intimate  Sweet  one  and 

brought  thee  a  Bride. 
Cry  hail !  nor  bewail  that  the  wound  of  her 
coming  was  wide. 

1  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright, 
1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  Scnbner's  Sons. 


Lo,  Freedom  reached  forth  where  the  world 

as  an  apple  hung  red; 
Let  us  taste  the  whole  radiant  round  of  it, 

gayly  she  said: 
//  we  die,  at  the  worst  we  shall  lie  as  the  first 

of  the  dead. 
Knowledge  of  Good  and  of  111,  O  Land! 

she  hath  given  thee; 
Perilous  godhoods  of  choosing  have  rent 

thee  and  riven  thee; 
Will's  high  adoring  to  Ill's  low  exploring 

hath  driven  thee  — 
Freedom,  thy  Wife,  hath  uplifted  thy  life 

and  clean  shriven  thee! 
Her  shall  thou  clasp  for  a  balm  to  the  scars  of 

thy  breast, 
Her  shalt  thou  kiss  for  a  calm  to  thy  wars  of 

unrest, 
Her  shalt  extol  in  the  psalm  of  the  soul  of  the 

West. 
For  Weakness,  in  freedom,  grows  stronger 

than  Strength  with  a  chain; 
And  Error,  in  freedom,  will  come  to  lament 
ing  his  stain, 
Till  freely  repenting  he  whiten  his  spirit 

again ; 
And  Friendship,  in  freedom,  will  blot  out  the 

bounding  of  race; 
And  straight  Law,  in  freedom,  will  curve  to 

the  rounding  of  grace; 
And  Fashion,  in  freedom,  will  die  of  the  lie 
in  her  face. 

SIDNEY  LANIEK. 


PART    III 
THE  PERIOD   OF  GROWTH 


"OH   MOTHER  OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE" 

OH  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red; 
Thy  step  —  the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail  —  those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
Kow  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heair 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide; 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley-shades; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen;  — 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared. 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother!  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BUY  ANT. 


CHAPTER   I 


THE   NEW   NATION 


The  war  was  ended,  but  the  five  years  following 
1783  were  perhaps  the  most  critical  in  the  history 
of  the  American  people.  The  country  was  at  the 
verge  of  bankruptcy,  there  was  discontent  every 
where.  In  Massachusetts,  the  malcontents  found 
a  leader  in  Daniel  Shays,  rose  in  rebellion,  looted 
the  country,  and  were  not  dispersed  for  nearly 
a  year. 

A   RADICAL   SONG   OF    1786 

HUZZA,  my  Jo  Bunkers!  no  taxes  we'll  pay; 
Here 's  a  pardon  for  Wheeler,  Shays,  Parsons, 

and  Day; 
Put  green  boughs  in  your  hats,  and  renew  the 

old  cause; 
Stop  the  courts  in  each  county,  and  bully  the 

laws: 
Constitutions  and  oaths,  sir,  we  mind  not  a 

rush ; 

Such  trifles  must  yield  to  us  lads  of  the  bush. 
New  laws  and  new  charters  our  books  shall 

display. 
Composed   by   conventions  and   Counsellor 

Grey. 

Since  Boston  and  Salem  so  haughty  have 

grown. 
We'll  make  them  to  know  we  can  let  them 

alone. 

Of  Glasgow  or  Pelham  we'll  make  a  seaport, 
And  there  we'll  assemble  our  General  Court: 
Our  governor,  now,  boys,  shall  turn  out  to 

work, 

And  live,  like  ourselves,  on  molasses  and  pork ; 
In  Adams  or  Greenwich  he'll  live  like  a  peer 
On  three  hundred  pounds,  paper  money,  a 

year. 

Grand  jurors,  and  sheriffs,  and  lawyers  we'll 

spurn, 

As  judges,  we'll  all  take  the  bench  in  our  turn, 
And  sit  the  whole  term,  without  pension  or  fee, 
Nor  Gushing  nor  Sewal  look  graver  than  we. 
Our  wigs,  though  they're  rusty,  are  decent 

enough ; 
Our  aprons,  though  black,  are  of  durable 

stuff; 

Array'd  in  such  gear,  the  laws  we'll  explain, 
That  poor  people  no  more  shall  have  cause 

to  complain. 


To  Congress  and  impost  we'll  plead  a  re 
lease; 

The  French  we  can  beat  half-a-dozen  apiece; 

We  want  not  their  guineas,  their  arms,  or 
alliance; 

And  as  for  the  Dutchmen,  we  bid  them  de 
fiance. 

Then  huzza,  my  Jo  Bunkers!  no  taxes  we'll 

pay; 

Here's  a  pardon  for  Wheeler,  Shays,  Parsons 

and  Day; 
Put  green  boughs  in  your  hats,  and  renew  the 

old  cause; 
Stop  the  courts  in  each  county,  and  bully  the 

laws. 

ST.  JOHN  HONEYWOOD. 


A  federal  convention  was  proposed ,  and  in  May, 
1787,  there  assembled  at  Philadelphia  fifty-five 
men  appointed  by  the  various  states  to  devise  an 
adequate  constitution  for  a  federal  government. 

THE   FEDERAL   CONVENTION 

[May,  1787J 

CONCENTRED  here  th'  united  wisdom  shines, 

Of  learn'd  judges,  and  of  sound  divines : 

Patriots,  whose  virtues  searching  time  has 
tried, 

Heroes,  who  fought,  where  brother  heroes 
died; 

Lawyers,  who  speak,  as  Tully  spoke  before, 

Sages,  deep  read  in  philosophic  lore; 

Merchants,  whose  plans  are  to  no  realms  con- 
fin'd, 

Farmers  —  the   noblest  title   'mongst  man 
kind: 

Yeomen  and  tradesmen,  pillars  of  the  state; 

On  whose  decision  hangs  Columbia's  fate. 
September,  1787. 


George  Washington  was  chosen  president  of 
the  convention;  the  doors  were  locked,  and  the 
Herculean  task  of  making  a  constitution  begun. 
Washington  himself,  in  a  burst  of  noble  eloquence, 
braced  the  delegates  for  the  task  before  them.  The 
problem  was  to  devise  a  government  which  should 
bind  all  the  states  without  impairing  their  sover 
eignty. 


270 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


TO  THE   FEDERAL   CONVENTION 

[1787] 

BE  then  your  counsels,  as  your  subject,  great, 
A  world  their  sphere,  and  time's  long  reign 

their  date. 

Each  party-view,  each  private  good,  disclaim, 
Each  petty  maxim,  each  colonial  aim; 
Let  all  Columbia's  weal  your  views  expand, 
A  mighty  system  rule  a  mighty  land ; 
Yourselves  her  genuine  sons  let  Europe  own. 
Not  the  small  agents  of  a  paltry  town. 
Learn,  cautious,  what  to  alter,  where  to 

mend; 

See  to  what  close  projected  measures  tend. 
From  pressing  wants  the  mind  averting  still, 
Thinks  good  remotest  from  the  present  ill: 
From  feuds  anarchial  to  oppression's  throne, 
Misguided  nations  hence  for  safety  run ; 
And  through  the  miseries  of  a  thousand  years, 
Their  fatal  folly  mourn  in  bloody  tears. 

Ten  thousand  follies  thro'  Columbia  spread ; 
Ten  thousand  wars  her  darling  realms  in 
vade. 

The  private  interest  of  each  jealous  state ; 
Of  rule  th'  impatience  and  of  law  the  hate. 
But  ah!    from   narrow   springs    these    evils 

flow, 

A  few  base  wretches  mingle  general  woe ; 
Still  the  same  mind  her  manly  race  pervades ; 
Still  the   same   virtues  haunt   the   hallow'd 

shades. 

But  when  the  peals  of  war  her  centre  shook, 
All  private  aims  the  anxious  mind  forsook. 
In  danger's  iron-bond  her  race  was  one, 
Each  separate  good,  each  little  view  unknown. 
Now  rule,  unsystem'd,  drives  the  mind  astray; 
Now  private  interest  points  the  downward 

way: 

Hence  civil  discord  pours  her  muddy  stream, 
And  fools  and  villains  float  upon  the  brim; 
O'er  all,  the  sad  spectator  casts  his  eye, 
And  wonders  where  the  gems  and  minerals 

lie. 

But  ne'er  of  freedom,  glory,  bliss,  despond: 
Uplift  your  eyes  those  little  clouds  beyond; 
See  there   returning  suns,  with   gladdening 

ray, 

Roll  on  fair  spring  to  chase  this  wint'ry  day. 
'T  is  yours  to  bid  those  days  of  Eden  shine : 
First,  then,  and  last,  the  federal  bands  en 
twine: 

To  this  your  every  aim  and  effort  bend: 
Let  all  your  efforts  here  commence  and  end. 


O'er  state  concerns,  let  every  state  preside; 
Its  private  tax  controul;  its  justice  guide; 
Religion  aid;  the  morals  to  secure; 
And  bid  each  private  right  thro'  time  endure. 
Columbia's  interests  public  sway  demand, 
Her  commerce,  impost,  unlocated  land; 
Her  war,  her  peace,  her  military  power; 
Treaties  to  seal  with  every  distant  shore; 

To  bid  contending  states  their  discord  cease ; 
To  send  thro'  all  the  calumet  of  peace; 
Science  to  wing  thro'  every  noble  flight; 
And  lift  desponding  genius  into  light. 

Be  then  your  task  to  alter,  aid,  amend; 

The  weak  to  strengthen,  and  the  rigid  bend; 

The  prurient  lop;  what's  wanted  to  supply; 

And  grant  new  scions  from  each  friendly  sky. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


There  was  a  natural  antagonism  between  large 
and  small  states,  and  more  than  once  the  conven 
tion  was  on  the  verge  of  dissolution;  but  a  com 
promise  was  finally  reached,  the  constitution  as 
we  know  it  was  evolved  and  signed  by  all  the 
delegates,  and  on  September  17,  1787,  the  con 
vention  adjourned.  The  constitution  was  famil 
iarly  styled  the  "new  roof." 


THE   NEW   ROOF 

A  SONG  FOR   FEDERAL  MECHANICS 
[1787] 


COME  muster,  my  lads,  your  mechanical  tools, 
Your  saws  and  your  axes,  your  hammers  and 

rules; 
Bring  your  mallets  and  planes,  your  level  and 

line, 

And  plenty  of  pins  of  American  pine : 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  stiR 

shall  be, 
Our  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 


Come,  up  with  the  plates,  lay  them  firm  on 
the  wall. 

Like  the  people  at  large,  they're  the  ground 
work  of  all ; 

Examine  them  well,  and  see  that  they're 
sound, 

Let  no  rotten  part  in  our  building  be  found: 

For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 
shall  be 

A  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 


CONVENTION   SONG 


271 


Now  hand  up  the  girders,  lay  each  in  his  place, 
Between  them  the  joists,  must  divide  all  the 

space; 

Like  assemblymen  these  should  lie  level  along, 
Like  girders,  our  senate  prove  loyal  and  strong : 
/•'or  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 

shall  be 
A  government  firm  over  citizens  free. 


The  rafters  now  frame;  your  king-posts  and 
braces, 

And  drive  your  pins  home,  to  keep  all  in  their 
places ; 

Let  wisdom  and  strength  in  the  fabric  com 
bine, 

And  your  pins  be  all  made  of  American  pine: 

For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 
shall  be, 

A  government  firm  over  citizens  free. 


Our  Idng-posts  are  judges ;  how  upright  they 

stand, 

Supporting  the  braces ;  the  laws  of  the  land : 
The  laws  of  the  land,  which  divide  right  from 

wrong. 
And  strengthen  the  weak,  by  weak'ning  the 

strong: 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 

shall  be, 
Laws  equal  and  just,  for  a  people  that's  free. 


Up!  up!  with  the  rafters;  each  frame  is  a 

state : 
How  nobly  they  rise!   their  span,  too,  how 

great! 
From  the  north  to  the  south,  o'er  the  whole 

they  extend, 
And  rest  on  the  walls,  whilst  the  walls  they 

defend : 
For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 

shall  be 
Combined  in  strength,  yet  as  citizens  free. 


Now  enter  the  purlins,  and  drive  your  pins 

through ; 
And  see  that  your  joints  are  drawn  home  and 

all  true. 

The  purlins  will  bind  all  the  rafters  together: 
The  strength  of  the  whole  shall  defy  wind  and 

weather: 


For  our  roof  we  will  raise,  and  our  song  still 

shall  be, 
United  as  states,  but  as  citizens  free. 

VIII 

Come,  raise  up  the  turret;  our  glory  and  pride; 
In  the  centre  it  stands,  o'er  the  whole  to  pre 
side  : 

The  sons  of  Columbia  shall  view  with  delight 
Its  pillars,  and  arches,  and  towering  height: 
Our  roof  is  now  rais'd,  and  our  song  still  shall  be, 
A  federal  head  o'er  a  people  that  's  free. 

IX 

Huzza!  my  brave  boys,  our  work  is  complete; 
The  world  shall  admire  Columbia's  fair  seat; 
Its  strength  against  tempest  and  time  shall 

be  proof, 
And  thousands  shall  come  to  dwell  under  our 

roof: 
Whilst  we  drain  the  deep  bowl,  our  toast  still 

shall  be, 

Our  government  firm,  and  our  citizens  free. 
FRANCIS  HOPKINSONT. 


The  new  constitution  had  still  to  be  submitted 
to  the  several  states  for  ratification.  One  after 
another  they  fell  into  line,  but  Massachusetts  held 
back.  On  January  9,  1788,  the  convention  met, 
and  week  after  week  dragged  by  in  fierce  debate; 
but  finally,  on  February  6,  1788,  the  Constitution 
was  ratified  by  a  majority  of  nineteen  votes. 


CONVENTION  SONG 

[February  6,  1788J 

THE  'Vention  did  in  Boston  meet 

But  State  House  could  not  hold  'em, 
So  they  went  to  Federal  Street, 
And  there  the  truth  was  told  'em. 
Yankee  doodle,  keep  it  up! 
Yankee  doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

They  every  morning  went  to  prayer; 

And  then  began  disputing; 
Till  opposition  silenced  were, 

By  arguments  refuting. 

Then  'Squire  Hancock,  like  a  man 
Who  dearly  loves  the  nation, 

By  a  Concil'atory  plan, 
Prevented  much  vexation. 


272 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


He  made  a  woundy  Fed'ral  speech, 

With  sense  and  elocution; 
And  then  the  Yankees  did  beseech 

T'  adopt  the  Constitution. 

The  question  being  outright  put 

(Each  voter  independent), 
The  Fed'ralists  agreed  to  adopt, 

And  then  propose  amendments. 

The  other  party  seeing  then 

The  People  were  against  them, 
Agreed,  like  honest,  faithful  men, 

To  mix  in  peace  amongst  'em. 

The  Boston  folks  are  deuced  lads, 

And  always  full  of  notions; 
The  boys,  the  girls,  their  mams  and  dads, 

Were  fill'd  with  joy's  commotions. 

So  straightway  they  procession  made, 

Lord,  how  nation  fine,  sir ! 
For  every  man  of  every  trade 

Went  with  his  tools  —  to  dine,  sir. 

John  Foster  Williams  in  a  ship 

Join'd  with  the  social  band,  sir 
And  made  the  lasses  dance  and  skip, 

To  see  him  sail  on  land,  sir! 

O  then  a  whopping  feast  began, 

And  all  hands  went  to  eating, 
They  drank  their  toasts,  shook  hands  and 
sung  — 

Huzza  for  'Vention  meeting! 

Now,  politicians,  of  all  kinds, 

Who  are  not  yet  derided, 
May  see  how  Yankees  speak  their  minds, 

And  yet  we  're  not  decided. 

Then  from  this  sample,  let  'em  cease 

Inflammatory  writing; 
For  freedom,  happiness,  and  peace, 

Are  better  far  than  fighting. 

So  here  I  end  my  Federal  song, 

Composed  of  thirteen  verses; 
May  agriculture  flourish  long. 

And  commerce  fill  our  purses. 

Hot  battles  were  still  to  be  fought  in  some  of 
the  other  states,  —  hottest  of  all  in  New  York,  — 
but  by  midsummer  of  1788  all  the  states  had 
ratified  the  Constitution,  and  it  stood  an  accom 
plished  fact. 


THE  FEDERAL  CONSTITUTION 

POETS  may  sing  of  their  Helicon  streams; 
Their  gods  and   their  heroes  are   fabulous 

dreams ! 

They  ne'er  sang  a  line 
Half  so  grand,  so  divine 
As  the  glorious  toast 
We  Columbians  boast  — 
The  Federal  Constitution,  boys,  and  Liberty 
forever. 

The  man  of  our  choice  presides  at  the  helm ; 
No  tempest  can  harm  us,  no  storm  over 
whelm  ; 

Our  sheet  anchor 's  sure, 
And  our  bark  rides  secure; 
So  here's  to  the  toast 
We  Columbians  boast  — 
The  Federal  Constitution  and  the  President 
forever. 

A  free  navigation,  commerce,  and  trade, 
We'll  seek  for  no  foe,  of  no  foe  be  afraid; 

Our  frigates  shall  ride, 

Our  defence  and  our  pride; 

Our  tars  guard  our  coast, 

And  huzza  for  our  toast  — 
The  Federal  Constitution,  trade  and  com 
merce  forever. 

Montgomery  and   Warren   still   live  in   our 

songs; 
Like  them  our  young  heroes  shall  spurn  at 

our  wrongs: 
The  world  shall  admire 
The  zeal  and  the  fire, 
Which  blaze  in  the  toast 
We  Columbians  boast  — 
The  Federal  Constitution  and  its  advocates 
forever. 

When  an  enemy  threats,  all  party  shall  cease; 
We  bribe  no  intruders  to  buy  a  mean  peace ; 

Columbia  will  scorn 

Friends  and  foes  to  suborn ; 

We'll  ne'er  stain  the  toast 

Which  as  freemen  we  boast  — 
The    Federal    Constitution,    and    integrity 
forever. 

Fame's  trumpet  shall  swell  in  Washington's 

praise, 
And  time  grant  a  furlough  to  lengthen  his 

davs ; 


THE  FIRST  AMERICAN   CONGRESS 


273 


May  health  weave  the  thread 
Of  delight  round  his  head. 
No  nation  can  boast 
Such  a  naine,  such  a  toast, 
The  Federal  Constitution,  boys,  and  Wash 
ington  forever. 

WILLIAM  MILNS. 


The  Continental  Congress,  in  putting  an  end 
to  its  troubled  existence,  decreed  that  the  first 
presidential  election  should  be  held  on  the  first 
Wednesday  of  January,  1789,  and  that  the  Senate 
and  House  of  Representatives  should  assemble 
on  the  first  Wednesday  in  March. 


THE   FIRST  AMERICAN   CONGRESS 

[April  6,  1789] 

COLUMBUS  looked;  and  still  around  them 

spread, 

From  south  to  north,  th'  immeasurable  shade; 
At  last,  the  central  shadows  burst  away, 
And  rising  regions  open'd  on  the  day. 
He  saw,  once  more,  bright  Del'ware's  silver 

stream, 
And  Penn's   throng'd   city   cast   a   cheerful 

gleam ; 

The  dome  of  state,  that  met  his  eager  eye, 
Now  heav'd  its  arches  in  a  loftier  sky. 
The  bursting  gates  unfold:  and  lo,  within, 
A  solemn  train  in  conscious  glory  shine. 
The  well-known  forms  his  eye  had  trac'd 

before, 

In  diff'rent  realms  along  th'  extended  shore; 
Here,  grac'd  with  nobler  fame,  and  rob'd  in 

state, 
They  look'd  and  mov'd  magnificently  great. 

High  on  the  foremost  seat,  in  living  light, 
Majestic  Randolph  caught  the  hero's  sight : 
Fair  on  his  head,  the  civic  crown  was  plac'd, 
And  the  first  dignity  his  sceptre  grac'd. 
He  opes  the  cause,  and  points  in  prospect 

far, 
Thro'  all  the  toils  that  wait  th'  impending 

war  — 

But,  hapless  sage,  thy  reign  must  soon  be  o'er, 
To  lend  thy  lustre,  and  to  shine  no  more. 
So  the  bright  morning  star,  from  shades  of 

ev'n, 
Leads  up  the  dawn,  and  lights  the  front  of 

heav'n, 
Points  to  the  waking  world  the  sun's  broad 

way. 
Then  veils  his  own,  and  shines  above  the  day. 


And  see  great  Washington  behind  thee  rise, 
Thy  following  sun,  to  gild  our  morning  skies; 
O'er  shadowy  climes  to  pour  the  enliv'ning 

flame, 

The  charms  of  freedom  and  the  fire  of  fame. 
Th'  ascending  chief  adorn'd  his  splendid  seat, 
Like  Randolph,  ensign 'd  with  a  crown  of 

state; 
Where  the  green  patriot  bay  beheld,  with 

pride, 

The  hero's  laurel  springing  by  its  side; 
His  sword,  hung  useless,  on  his  graceful  thigh, 
On  Britain  still  he  cast  a  filial  eye; 
But  sov'reign  fortitude  his  visage  bore, 
To  meet  their  legions  on  th'  invaded  shore. 

Sage  Franklin  next  arose,  in  awful  mien, 
And  smil'd,  unruffled,  o'er  th'  approaching 

scene; 

High,  on  his  locks  of  age,  a  wreath  was  brac'd, 
Palm  of  all  arts,  that  e'er  a  mortal  grac'd; 
Beneath  him  lies  the  sceptre  kings  have  borne. 
And  crowns  and  laurels  from  their  temples 

torn. 

Nash,  Rutledge.  Jefferson,  in  council  great. 
And  Jay  and  Laurens  op'd  the  rolls  of  fate. 
The   Livingstons,    fair    Freedom's   gen'rous 

band, 

The  Lees,  the  Houstons,  fathers  of  the  land, 
O'er  climes  and  kingdoms  turn'd  their  ardent 

eyes, 
Bade  all  th'  oppressed  to  speedy  vengeance 

rise; 

All  pow'rs  of  state,  in  their  extended  plan, 
Rise  from  consent  to  shield  the  rights  of  man. 
Bold  Wolcott  urg'd  the  all-important  cause; 
With  steady  hand  the  solemn  scene  he  draws; 
Undaunted  firmness  with  his  wisdom  join'd, 
Nor  kings  nor  worlds  could  warp  his  stedfast 

mind. 

Now,  graceful  rising  from  his  purple  throne, 
In  radiant  robes,  immortal  Hosmer  shone; 
Myrtles  and  bays  his  learned  temples  bound, 
The  statesman's  wreath,  the  poet's  garland 

crown 'd: 

Morals  and  laws  expand  his  liberal  soul, 
Beam  from  his  eyes,  and  in  his  accents  roll. 
But  lo !  an  unseen  hand  the  curtain  drew, 
And  snatch'd  the  patriot  from  the  hero's  view; 
Wrapp'd  in  the  shroud  of  death,  he  sees  de 
scend 

The  guide  of  nations  and  the  muses'  friend. 
Columbus  dropp'd  a  tear.  The  angel's  eye 
Trac'd  the  freed  spirit  mounting  thro'  the 

sky. 
Adams,  enrag'd,  a  broken  charter  bore, 


274 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  lawless  acts  of  ministerial  pow'r; 
Some  injur'd  right  in  each  loose  leaf  appears, 
A  king  in  terrors  and  a  land  in  tears; 
From  all  the  guileful  plots  the  veil  he  drew, 
With  eye  retortive  look'd  creation  through; 
Op'd  the  wide  range  of  nature's  boundless 

plan, 

Trac'd  all  the  steps  of  liberty  and  man; 
Crowds  rose  to  vengeance  while  his  accents 

rung, 

And  Independence  thunder'd  from  his  tongue. 
JOEL  BARLOW. 


The  first  business  was>  the  counting  of  the 
electoral  votes.  There  were  sixty-nine  of  them, 
and  every  one  was  for  George  Washington,  of 
Virginia. 

WASHINGTON 

GOD  wills  no  man  a  slave.    The  man  most 

meek, 

Who  saw  Him  face  to  face  on  Horeb's  peak, 
Had  slain  a  tyrant  for  a  bondman's  wrong, 
And  met  his  Lord  with  sinless  soul  and  strong. 
But  when,  years  after,  overfraught  with  care, 
His  feet  once  trod  doubt's  pathway  to  despair, 
For  that  one  treason  lapse,  the  guiding  hand 
That  led  so  far  now  barred  the  promised 

land. 

God  makes  no  man  a  slave,  no  doubter  free ; 
Abiding  faith  alone  wins  liberty. 

No  angel  led  our  Chieftain's  steps  aright; 
No  pilot  cloud  by  day,  no  flame  by  night; 
No  plague  nor  portent  spake  to  foe  or  friend ; 
No  doubt  assailed  him,  faithful  to  the  end. 

Weaklings  there  were,  as  in  the  tribes  of  old, 
Who  craved  for  fleshpots,  worshipped  calves 

of  gold, 
Murmured  that  right  would  harder  be  than 

wrong, 

And  freedom's  narrow  road  so  steep  and  long ; 
But  he  who  ne'er  on  Sinai's  summit  trod, 
Still  walked  the  highest  heights  and  spake 

with  God; 

Saw  with  anointed  eyes  no  promised  land 
By  petty  bounds  or  pettier  cycles  spanned, 
Its  people  curbed  and  broken  to  the  ring, 
Packed   with   a   caste  and  saddled   with  a 

King,  — 

But  freedom's  heritage  and  training  school, 
Where  men  unruled  should  learn  to  wisely 

rule, 


Till  sun  and  moon  should  see  at  Ajalon 
King's   heads   in   dust   and    freemen's   feet 
thereon. 

His  work  well  done,  the  leader  stepped  aside, 
Spurning  a  crown  with  more  than  kingly  pride, 
Content  to  wear  the  higher  crown  of  worth, 
While  time  endures,  First  Citizen  of  earth. 
JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


Washington  left  Mount  Vernon  on  April  16,  and 
started  for  New  York,  where,  on  April  30,  1789, 
he  took  the  oath  of  office  as  President  of  the 
United  States. 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON 

[April  30,  1789] 

THE  sword  was  sheathed:  in  April's  sun 
Lay  green  the  fields  by  Freedom  won; 
And  severed  sections,  weary  of  debates, 
Joined  hands  at  last  and  were  United  States. 

O  City  sitting  by  the  Sea! 

How  proud  the  day  that  dawned  on  thee, 
When  the  new  era,  long  desired,  began, 
And,  in  its  need,  the  hour  had  found  the  man ! 

One  thought  the  cannon  salvos  spoke, 
The  resonant  bell-tower's  vibrant  stroke, 
The  voiceful  streets,  the  plaudit-echoing  halls, 
And  prayer  and  hymn  borne  heavenward  from 
St.  Paul's! 

How  felt  the  land  in  every  part 
The  strong  throb  of  a  nation's  heart, 

As  its  great  leader  gave,  with  reverent  awe. 

His  pledge  to  Union,  Liberty,  and  Law ! 

That  pledge  the  heavens  above  him  heard, 
That  vow  the  sleep  of  centuries  stirred ; 
In  world-wide  wonder  listening  peoples  bent 
Their  gaze  on  Freedom's  great  experiment. 

Could  it  succeed  ?   Of  honor  sold 
And  hopes  deceived  all  history  told. 

Above  the  wrecks  that  strewed  the  mournful 
past, 

Was  the  long  dream  of  ages  true  at  last  ? 

Thank  God!  the  people's  choice  was  just, 
The  one  man  equal  to  his  trust, 
Wise  beyond  lore,  and  without  weakness  good, 
Calm  in  the  strength  of  flawless  rectitude! 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON 


275 


His  rule  of  justice,  order,  peace, 
Made  possible  the  world's  release; 

Taught  prince  and  serf  that  power  is  but  a 
trust, 

And  rule  alone,  which  serves  the  ruled,  is  just; 

That  Freedom  generous  is,  but  strong 
In  hate  of  fraud  and  selfish  wrong, 
Pretence  that  turns  her  holy  truth  to  lies, 
And  lawless  license  masking  in  her  guise. 

Land  of  his  love!  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  thy  great  sisterhood  rejoice; 
A  century's  suns  o'er  thee  have  risen  and  set, 
And,  God  be  praised,  we  are  one  nation  yet. 

And  still  we  trust  the  years  to  be 
Shall  prove  his  hope  was  destiny, 
Leaving  our  flag,  with  all  its  added  stars, 
Unrent  by  faction  and  unstained  by  wars. 

Lo!  where  with  patient  toil  he  nursed 
And  trained  the  new-set  plant  at  first, 
The  widening  branches  of  a  stately  tree 
Stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  sea. 

And  in  its  broad  and  sheltering  shade, 
Sitting  with  none  to  make  afraid, 
Were  we  now  silent,   through  each  mighty 

limb, 

The  winds  of  heaven  would  sing  the  praise  of 
him. 

Our  first  and  best !  —  his  ashes  lie 

Beneath  his  own  Virginian  sky. 
Forgive,  forget,  O  true  and  just  and  brave, 
The  storm  that  swept  above  thy  sacred  grave ! 

For,  ever  in  the  awful  strife 

And  dark  hours  of  the  nation's  life, 

Through  the  fierce  tumult  pierced  his  warning 
word. 

Their  father's  voice  his  erring  children  heard ! 

The  change  for  which  he  prayed  and  sought 
In  that  sharp  agony  was  wrought; 
No  partial  interest  draws  its  alien  line 
'Twixt  North  and  South,  the  cypress  and  the 
pine! 

One  people  now,  all  doubt  beyond, 
His  name  shall  be  our  Union-bond; 

We  lift  our  hands  to  Heaven,  and  here  and 
now 

Take  on  our  lips  the  old  Centennial  vow. 


For  rule  and  trust  must  needs  be  ours; 

Chooser  and  chosen  both  are  powers 
Equal  in  service  as  in  rights;  the  claim 
Of  Duty  rests  on  each  and  all  the  same. 

Then  let  the  sovereign  millions,  where 
Our  banner  floats  in  sun  and  air, 
From  the  warm  palm-lands  to  Alaska's  cold, 
Repeat  with  us  the  pledge  a  century  old ! 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Benjamin  Franklin  had  been  in  ill-health  for 
many  months,  and  the  end  came  at  Philadelphia, 
April  17,  1790.  He  was  born  at  Boston,  January 
17,  1706. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BENJAMIN 
FRANKLIN 

[April  17,  1790] 

THUS,  some  tall  tree  that  long  hath  stood 
The  glory  of  its  native  wood, 
By  storms  destroyed,  or  length  of  years, 
Demands  the  tribute  of  our  tears. 

The  pile,  that  took  long  time  to  raise, 
To  dust  returns  by  slow  decays; 
But,  when  its  destined  years  are  o'er, 
We  must  regret  the  loss  the  more. 

So  long  accustomed  to  your  aid, 
The  world  laments  your  exit  made; 
So  long  befriended  by  your  art, 
Philosopher,  't  is  hard  to  part !  — 

When  monarchs  tumble  to  the  ground 
Successors  easily  are  found; 
But,  matchless  Franklin!  what  a  few 
Can  hope  to  rival  such  as  you, 
Who  seized  from  kings  their  sceptred  pride, 
And  turned  the  lightning's  darts  aside! 
PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


On  November  6,  1792,  George  Washington  was 
again  unanimously  chosen  President  of  the  United 
States,  and  was  inaugurated  on  March  4,  1793. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON 

THIS  was  the  man  God  gave  us  when  the  hour 
Proclaimed  the  dawn  of  Liberty  begun; 
Who  dared  a  deed  and  died  when  it  was  done 
Patient  in  triumph,  temperate  in  power,  — 
Not  striving  like  the  Corsican  to  tower 


276 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


To  heaven,  nor  like  great  Philip's  greater  son 
To  win  the  world  and  weep  for  worlds  unwon, 
Or  lose  the  star  to  revel  in  the  flower. 
The  lives  that  serve  the  eternal  verities 
Alone  do  mould  mankind.  Pleasure  and  pride 
Sparkle  awhile  and  perish,  as  the  spray 
Smoking  across  the  crests  of  cavernous  seas 
Is  impotent  to  hasten  or  delay 
The  everlasting  surges  of  the  tide. 

JOHN  HALL  INGHAM. 


On  September  19,  1796,  Washington  issued  his 
"farewell  address,"  declining  a  third  term  as 
President. 

WASHINGTON 

WHERE  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes  —  one  —  the  first  —  the  last  —  the 

best  — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  men  blush  there  was  but  one! 
LORD  BYRON. 


The  election  was  held  on  November  8,  1796, 
and  the  electoral  votes  were  counted  February  8, 
1 797.  John  Adams  received  seventy-one,  Thomas 
Jefferson  sixty-eight,  Thomas  Pinckney  fifty-nine, 
and  Aaron  Burr  thirty.  Adams  assumed  office 
March  4,  1797.  Relations  with  both  France  and 
England  had  become  more  than  ever  strained,  and 
a  war,  especially  with  the  former,  seemed  certain . 
These  circumstances  gave  birth  to  one  of  the 
most  popular  political  songs  ever  written  in 
America. 

ADAMS  AND   LIBERTY 

[1798] 

YE  sons  of  Columbia,   who   bravely   have 

fought 
For  those   rights  which    unstained    from 

your  sires  have  descended, 
May  you  long  taste  the  blessings  your  valor 

has  bought, 
And  your  sons  reap  the   soil  which  their 

fathers  defended. 
'Mid  the  reign  of  mild  peace, 
May  your  nation  increase, 
With  the  glory  of  Rome  and  the  wisdom  of 
Greece; 


And  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 
While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 

rolls  its  waves. 


In  a  clime,  whose  rich  vales  feed  the  marts  of 

the  world, 
Whose  shores  are  unshaken  by  Europe's 

commotion, 
The  trident  of  commerce  should  never  be 

hurl'd, 
To   incense  the  legitimate  powers  of   the 

ocean. 

But  should  pirates  invade, 
Though  in  thunder  array'd, 
Let  your  cannon  declare  the  free  charter  of 

trade. 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 

The  fame  of  our  arms,  of  our  laws  the  mild 

sway, 

Had  justly  ennobled  our  nation  in  story, 
Till  the  dark  clouds  of  faction  obscured  our 

young  day, 

And  enveloped  the  sun  of  American  glory. 
But  let  traitors  be  told, 
Who  their  country  have  sold, 
And  barter'd   their   God   for  his   image   in 

gold, 
That  ne'er  will  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 


While  France  her  huge  limbs  bathes  recum 
bent  in  blood, 

And  society's  base  threats  with  wide  dis 
solution  ; 
May  peace,  like  the  dove  who  return'd  from 

the  flood, 

Find  an  ark  of  abode  in  our  mild  consti 
tution. 

But,  though  peace  is  our  aim, 
Yet  the  boon  we  disclaim, 
If   bought   by   our   sovereignty,   justice,   or 

fame; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 


HAIL   COLUMBIA 


277 


'T  is  the  fire  of  the  flint,  each  American 

warms : 
Let   Rome's   haughty   victors   beware   of 

collision, 
Let  them  bring  all  the  vassals  of  Europe  in 

arms, 
We're  a  world  by  ourselves,  and  disdain 

a  division. 

While,  with  patriot  pride, 
To  our  laws  we're  allied, 
No  foe  can  subdue  us,  no  faction  divide, 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 

Our  mountains  are  crown'd  with  imperial 

oak; 
Whose  roots,  like  our  liberties,  ages  have 

nourish'd ; 

But  long  ere  our  nation  submits  to  the  yoke, 
Not  a  tree  shall  be  left  on  the  field  where 

it  flourish'd. 

Should  invasion  impend. 
Every  grove  would  descend, 
From  the  hill-tops,  they  shaded,  our  shores 

to  defend. 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 


Let  our  patriots  destroy  Anarch's  pestilent 

worm; 
Lest  our  liberty's  growth  should  be  check'd 

by  corrosion; 
Then  let  clouds  thicken  round  us;  we  heed 

not  the  storm; 
Our  realm  fears  no  shock,  but  the  earth's 

own  explosion. 
Foes  assail  us  in  vain, 
Though  their  fleets  bridge  the  main, 
For  our  altars  and  laws  with  our  lives  we'll 

maintain. 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 

Should  the  tempest  of  war  overshadow  our 

land. 

Its  bolts  could  ne'er  rend  Freedom's  temple 
asunder; 


For,  unmov'd,  at   its  portal,  would  Wash 
ington  stand, 
And  repulse,  with  his  breast,  the  assaults 

of  the  thunder! 
His  sword  from  the  sleep 
Of  its  scabbard  would  leap, 
And  conduct,  with  its  point,  every  flash  to 

the  deep! 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 

Let  fame  to  the  world  sound  America's  voice; 
No  intrigues  can  her  sons  from  their  gov 
ernment  sever; 
Her  pride  is  her  Adams;  her  laws  are  his 

choice, 

And  shall  flourish,  till  Liberty  slumbers  for 
ever. 

Then  unite  heart  and  hand, 
Like  Leonidas'  band, 
And  swear  to  the   God  of  the  ocean  and 

land, 
That  ne'er  shall  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 

slaves, 

While  the  earth  bears  a  plant,  or  the  sea 
rolls  its  waves. 

ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE. 


On  May  28,  1798,  Congress  authorized  a  pro 
visional  army  of  ten  thousand  men  and  em 
powered  the  President  to  instruct  the  commanders 
of  American  ships  of  war  to  seize  French  armed 
vessels  attacking  American  merchantmen,  or 
hovering  about  the  coast  for  that  purpose.  Public 
excitement  ran  high,  and  when  Hopkinson's 
"Hail  Columbia"  was  sung  one  night  at  a  Phila 
delphia  theatre,  it  met  with  instantaneous  success. 


HAIL  COLUMBIA 

[First  sung  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Phila- 
delphia,  May,  1798] 

HAIL!  Columbia,  happy  land! 
Hail!  ye  heroes,  heav'n-born  band, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won; 
Let  independence  be  your  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost, 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 


278 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Chorus  —  Firm,  united  let  us  be, 

Rallying  round  our  liberty, 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots,  rise  once  more! 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore; 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize; 
While  offering  peace,  sincere  and  just, 
In  heav'n  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  may  prevail, 
And  ev'ry  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  fame! 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause! 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause! 

Let  ev'ry  clime  to  freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear; 

With  equal  skill,  with  steady  pow'r, 

He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 

Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 

The  happier  time  of  honest  peace. 

Behold  the  chief,  who  now  commands. 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands. 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat! 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ! 
But  armed  in  virtue,  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  heav'n  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
When  gloom  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free. 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty. 

JOSEPH  HOPKINSON. 

Word  crossed  the  ocean  that  Napoleon  was 
gathering  a  great  fleet  at  Toulon  and  it  was 
generally  believed  that  he  intended  to  invade 
America.  The  fleet,  of  course,  was  intended  for 
his  expedition  to  Egypt,  and  the  idea  that  he 
hopad  to  conquer  America  seems  ludicrous  enough, 
but  some  verses  written  by  Thomas  Green  Fes- 
eenden  in  July,  1798,  show  how  seriously  it  was 
entertained. 

YE  SONS  OF  COLUMBIA 

AN  ODE 
[July,  1798] 

YE  sons  of  Columbia,  unite  in  the  cause 
Of  liberty,  justice,  religion,  and  laws; 


Should  foes  then  invade  us,  to  battle  we'll 

hie, 
For  the  GOD  OF  OUR  FATHERS  will  be  our 

ally! 

Let  Frenchmen  advance, 
And  all  Europe  join  France, 
Designing  our  conquest  and  plunder; 
United  and  free 
Forever  we'll  be, 

And  our  cannon  shall  tell  them  in  thunder, 
That  foes  to  our  freedom  we  '11  ever  defy, 
Till  the  continent  sinks,  and  the  ocean  is  dry ! 

When    Britain   assail'd   us,    undaunted   we 

stood, 
Defended  the  land  we  had  purchas'd  with 

blood, 

Our  liberty  won,  and  it  shall  be  our  boast, 
If  the  old  world  united  should  menace  cur 

coast:  — 

Should  millions  invade, 
In  terrour  array'd, 
Our  liberties  bid  us  surrender, 
Our  country  they'd  find 
With  bayonets  lin'd, 
And  Washington  here  to  defend  her, 
For  foes  to  our  freedom  we'll  ever  defy 
Till  the  continent  sinks,  and  the  ocean  is  dry! 

Should  Buonapart'  come  with  his  sans  culotte 

band, 

And  a  new  sort  of  freedom  we  don't  under 
stand, 

And  make  us  an  offer  to  give  us  as  much 
As  France  has  bestow'd  on  the  Swiss  and  the 

Dutch, 

His  fraud  and  his  force 
Will  be  futile  of  course; 
We  wish  for  no  Frenchified  Freedom: 
If  folks  beyond  sea 
Are  to  bid  us  be  free. 
We'll  send  for  them  when  we  shall  need 

'em. 

But  sans  culotte  Frenchmen  we'll  ever  defy, 
Till  the  continent  sinks,  and  the  ocean  is  dry ! 

We're  anxious  that  Peace  may  continue  her 

reign, 
We  cherish  the  virtues  which  sport  in  her 

train ; 
Our  hearts  ever  melt,  when  the  fatherless 

sigh, 

And  we  shiver  at  Horrour's  funereal  cry! 
But  still,  though  we  prize 
That  child  of  the  skies, 


TRUXTON'S   VICTORY 


279 


We'll  never  like  slaves  be  accosted. 
In  a  war  of  defence 
Our  means  are  immense, 
And  we'll  fight  till  our  all  is  exhausted: 
For  foes  to  our  freedom  we'll  ever  defy, 
Till  the  continent  sinks,  and  the  ocean  is  dry ! 

The  EAGLE  of  FREEDOM  with  rapture  behold, 
Overshadow  our  land  with  his  plumage  of 

gold! 

The  flood-gates  of  glory  are  open  on  high, 
And  Warren  and  Mercer  descend  from  the  sky ! 
They  come  from  above 
With  a  message  of  love. 
To  bid  us  be  firm  and  decided; 
"At  Liberty's  call, 
Unite  one  and  all. 

For  you  conquer,  unless  you're  divided. 
Unite,  and  the  foes  to  your  freedom  defy, 
Till  the  continent  sinks  and  the  ocean  is  dry ! 

"Americans,  seek  no  occasion  for  war; 
The  rude  deeds  of  rapine  still  ever  abhor: 
But  if  in  uefence  of  your  rights  you  should 

arm, 

Let  toils  ne'er  discourage,  nor  dangers  alarm. 
For  foes  to  your  peace 
Will  ever  increase, 

If  freedom  and  fame  you  should  barter, 
Let  those  rights  be  yours, 
While  nature  endures, 
For  OMNIPOTENCE  gave  you  the  charter ! " 
Then  foes  to  our  freedom  we'll  ever  defy, 
Till  the  continent  sinks,  and  the  ocean  is  dry ! 
THOMAS  GREEN  FESSENDEN. 


Though  there  was  to  be  no  invasion  to  repel, 
the  new  navy  was  soon  to  win  its  spurs.  On  Feb 
ruary  9,  1799,  the  Constellation,  Captain  Truxton, 
sighted  the  36-gun  frigate,  Insurgente,  off  St.  Kitts, 
in  the  West  Indies,  and  promptly  gave  chase.  The 
Frenchman  was  overhauled  about  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon,  and  after  a  fierce  engagement  was 
forced  to  surrender.  Two  months  later.  Napoleon 
agreed  to  receive  the  American  envoy  "with  the 
respect  due  a  pov/erful  nation,"  and  all  danger  of 
war  was  soon  over. 


TRUXTON'S  VICTORY 

fFebruary  9,  1799J 

WHEN  Freedom,  fair  Freedom,  her  banner 

display'd. 
Defying  each  foe  whom  her  rights  would 

invade, 


Columbia's  brave  sons  swore  those  rights  to 

maintain, 
And  o'er  ocean  and  earth  to  establish  her 

reign ; 

United  they  cry, 
While  that  standard  shall  fly, 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady, 
We  always  are  ready 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 

Tho'  Gallia  through  Europe  has  rushed  like 

a  flood, 
And   deluged   the   earth   with  an  ocean  of 

blood: 

While  by  faction  she's  led,  while  she's  gov 
erned  by  knaves, 
We  court  not  her  smiles,  and  will  ne'er  be  her 

slaves; 

Her  threats  we  defy, 
While  our  standard  shall  fly, 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady, 
We  always  are  ready 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 

Tho'  France  with  caprice  dares  our  States 
men  upbraid, 
A  tribute  demands,  or  sets  bounds  to  our 

trade ; 
From  our  young  rising  Navy  our  thunders 

shall  roar, 

And  our  Commerce  extend  to  the  earth's  ut 
most  shore. 
Our  cannon  we'll  ply, 
While  our  standard  shall  fly; 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady, 
We  always  are  ready 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 

To  know  we're  resolved,  let  them  think  on 

the  hour, 
When  Truxton,  brave  Truxton  off  Nevis's 

shore, 
His  ship  mann'd  for  battle,  the  standard 

unfurl'd, 

And  at  the  Insurgente  defiance  he  hurled; 
And  his  valiant  tars  cry, 
While  our  standard  shall  fly, 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady, 
We  always  are  ready 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 

Each  heart  beat  exulting,  inspir'd  by  the 

cause; 
They  fought  for  their  country,  their  freedom 

and  laws; 


a8o 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


From  th2ir  cannon  loud  volleys  of  vengeance 

they  pour'd, 
And  the  standard  of  France  to  Columbia  was 

lower'd. 

Huzza!  they  now  cry, 
Let  the  Eagle  wave  high; 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady, 
We  always  are  ready 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 

Then  raise  high  the  strain,  pay  the  tribute 

that's  due 
To  the  fair  Constellation,  and  all  her  brave 

Crew; 

Be  Truxton  revered,  and  his  name  be  enrolled, 
'Mongst  the  chiefs  of  the  ocean,  the  heroes  of 

old. 

Each  invader  defy, 
While  such  heroes  are  nigh, 
Who  always  are  ready, 
Resolved,  firm,  and  steady 
To  fight,  and  to  conquer,  to  conquer  or  die. 


THE  CONSTELLATION  AND  THE 
INSURGENTS 

[February  9,  1799] 

COME  all  ye  Yankee  sailors,  with  swords  and 

pikes  advance, 
'T  is  time  to  try  your  courage  and  humble 

haughty  France, 

The  sons  of  France  our  seas  invade, 
Destroy  our  commerce  and  our  trade, 
'T  is  time  the  reck'ning  should  be  paid ! 
To  brave  Yankee  boys. 

On  board  the  Constellation,  from  Baltimore 

we  came, 
We  had  a  bold  commander  and  Truxton  was 

his  name! 

Our  ship  she  mounted  forty  guns, 
And  on  the  main  so  swiftly  runs, 
To  prove  to  France  Columbia's  sons 
Are  brave  Yankee  boys. 

We  sailed  to  the  West  Indies  in  order  to 

annoy 
The  invaders  of  our  commerce,  to  burn,  sink, 

and  destroy; 

Our  Constellation  shone  so  bright, 
The  Frenchmen  could  not  bear  the  sight. 
And  away  they  scamper'd  in  affright, 
From  the  brave  Yankee  boys. 


'T  was  on  the  9th  of  February,  at  Montserrat 

we  lay. 
And  there  we  spy'd  the  Insurgente  just  at  the 

break  of  day, 

We  raised  the  orange  and  the  blue, 
To  see  if  they  our  signals  knew, 
The  Constellation  and  her  crew 
Of  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Then  all  hands  were  called  to  quarters,  while 

we  pursued  in  chase, 
With  well-prim'd    guns,  our  tompions  out, 

well  spliced  the  main  brace. 
Soon  to  the  French  we  did  draw  nigh, 
Compelled  to  fight,  they  were,  or  fly, 
The  word  was   passed,  "  CONQUER  OR 
DIE," 
My  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Lord!   our   Cannons   thunder'd   with   peals 

tremendous  roar, 
And    death    upon    our    bullets'    wings    that 

drenched  their  decks  with  gore, 
The  blood  did  from  their  scuppers  run, 
Their   chief   exclaimed,    "We   are   un 
done  ! " 

Their  flag  they  struck,  the  battle  won, 
By  the  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Then  to  St.  Kitts  we  steered,  we  bro't  her  safe 

in  port, 
The  grand  salute  was  fired  and  answered  from 

the  fort, 

John  Adams  in  full  bumpers  toast, 
George  Washington,  Columbia's  boast. 
And  now  "the  girl  we  love  the  most!" 

My  brave  Yankee  boys. 
1813. 

On  December  14,  1799,  George  Washington  died 
at  Mount  Vernon  after  an  illness  lasting  only  a  few 
days.  The  funeral  took  place  four  days  later,  with 
only  such  ceremonials  as  the  immediate  neighbor 
hood  provided. 

WASHINGTON'S   MONUMENT 

FOR  him  who  sought  his  country's  good 
In  plains  of  war,  mid  scenes  of  blood; 
Who,  in  the  dubious  battle's  fray, 
Spent  the  warm  noon  of  life's  bright  day, 
That  to  a  world  he  might  secure 
Rights  that  forever  shall  endure, 

Rear  the  monument  of  fame! 

Deathless  is  the  hero's  name. 


HOW  WE  BURNED  THE  PHILADELPHIA 


281 


For  him,  who,  when  the  war  was  done, 
And  victory  sure,  and  freedom  won, 
Left  glory's  theatre,  the  field, 
The  olive  branch  of  peace  to  wield; 
And  proved,  when  at  the  helm  of  state, 
Though  great  in  war,  in  peace  as  great; 

Rear  the  monument  of  fame! 

Deathless  is  the  hero's  name! 

For  him,  whose  worth,  though  unexpress'd, 
Lives  cherish'd  in  each  freeman's  breast, 
Whose  name,  to  patriot  souls  so  dear, 
Time's  latest  children  shall  revere, 
Whose  brave  achievements  praised  shall  be, 
While  beats  one  breast  for  liberty; 

Rear  the  monument  of  fame! 

Deathless  is  the  hero's  name! 

But  why  for  him  vain  marbles  raise? 

Can  the  cold  sculpture  speak  his  praise? 

Illustrious  shade!  we  can  proclaim 

Our  gratitude,  but  not  thy  fame. 

Long  as  Columbia  shall  be  free, 

She  lives  a  monument  of  thee; 

And  may  she  ever  rise  in  fame, 
To  honor  thy  immortal  name! 


Since  1785  it  had  been  necessary  to  protect 
American  commerce  from  the  Barbary  corsairs 
by  paying  tribute,  but  their  demands  grew  so 
exorbitant  that  war  was  at  last  declared  against 
Tripoli,  and  a  squadron  dispatched  to  the  Medi 
terranean.  One  of  this  squadron  was  the  Phila 
delphia,  which  ran  aground  and  was  captured  by 
the  pirates  on  October  31,  1803.  The  ship  was 
towed  into  the  harbor  of  Tripoli  and  anchored 
under  the  guns  of  the  fortress.  On  the  night  of 
February  15,  1804,  a  party  of  seventy-five  headed 
by  Lieutenants  Decatur  and  Lawrence  and  Mid 
shipman  Bainbridge,  entered  the  harbor,  boarded 
the  Philadelphia,  drove  the  Turkish  crew  over 
board,  set  fire  to  the  shio,  and  escaped  without 
losing  a  man,  having  performed  what  Lord  Nelson 
called  "the  most  daring  act  of  the  age." 


HOW  WE  BURNED  THE  PHILA 
DELPHIA 

[February    15,    1804] 

By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the  Bashaw  swore 
He  would  scourge  us  from  the  seas; 

Yankees  should  trouble  his  soul  no  more  — 

By  the  Prophet's  beard  the  Bashaw  swore, 
Then    lighted    his    hookah,    and    took    his 
ease, 

And  troubled  his  soul  no  more. 


The  moon  was  dim  in  the  western  sky, 

And  a  mist  fell  soft  on  the  sea, 
As  we  slipped  away  from  the  Siren  brig 

And  headed  for  Tripoli. 

Behind  us  the  hulk  of  the  Siren  lay, 

Before  us  the  empty  night; 
And  when  again  we  looked  behind 

The  Siren  was  gone  from  our  sight. 

Nothing  behind  us,  and  nothing  before, 

Only  the  silence  and  rain, 
As  the  jaws  of  the  sea  took  hold  of  our  bows 

And  cast  us  up  again. 

Through  the  rain  and  the  silence  we  stole 
along, 

Cautious  and  stealthy  and  slow, 
For  we  knew  the  waters  were  full  of  those 

Who  might  challenge  the  Mastico. 

But  nothing  we  saw  till  we  saw  the  ghost 
Of  the  ship  we  had  come  to  see, 

Her  ghostly  lights  and  her  ghostly  frame 
Rolling  uneasily. 

And  as  we  looked,  the  mist  drew  up 
And  the  moon  threw  off  her  veil, 

And  we  saw  the  ship  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Ghostly  and  drear  and  pale. 

Then  spoke  Decatur  low  and  said: 

"To  the  bulwarks  shadow  all! 
But  the  six  who  wear  the  Tripoli  dress 

Shall  answer  the  sentinel's  call." 

"What  ship  is  that?"  cried  the  sentinel. 

"No  ship,"  was  the  answer  free; 
"But  only  a  Malta  ketch  in  distress 

Wanting  to  moor  in  your  lee. 

"  We  have  lost  our  anchor,  and  wait  for  day 

To  sail  into  Tripoli  town, 
And  the  sea  rolls  fierce  and  high  to-night, 

So  cast  a  cable  down." 

Then  close  to  the  frigate's  side  we  came, 

Made  fast  to  her  unforbid  — 
Six  of  us  bold  in  the  heathen  dress, 

The  rest  of  us  lying  hid. 

But  one  who  saw  us  hiding  there 

"Americano!"  cried. 
Then  straight  we  rose  and  made  a  rush 

Pellmell  up  the  frigate's  side. 


282 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Less  than  a  hundred  men  were  we, 
And  the  heathen  were  twenty  score; 

But  a  Yankee  sailor  in  those  old  days 
Liked  odds  of  one  to  four. 

And  first  we  cleaned  the  quarter-deck, 

And  then  from  stern  to  stem 
We  charged  into  our  enemies 

And  quickly  slaughtered  them. 

All  around  was  the  dreadful  sound 

Of  corpses  striking  the  sea, 
And  the  awful  shrieks  of  dying  men 

In  their  last  agony. 

The  heathen  fought  like  devils  all, 

But  one  by  one  they  fell, 
Swept  from  the  deck  by  our  cutlasses 

To  the  water,  and  so  to  hell. 

Some  we  found  in  the  black  of  the  hold, 

Some  to  the  fo'c's'le  fled, 
But  all  in  vain;  we  sought  them  out 

And  left  them  lying  dead; 

Till  at  last  no  soul  but  Christian  souls 

Upon  that  ship  was  found; 
The  twenty  score  were  dead,  and  we, 

The  hundred,  safe  and  sound. 

And,  stumbling  over  the  tangled  dead, 

The  deck  a  crimson  tide, 
We  fired  the  ship  from  keel  to  shrouds 

And  tumbled  over  the  side. 

Then  out  to  sea  we  sailed  once  more 
With  the  world  as  light  as  day, 

And  the  flames  revealed  a  hundred  sail 
Of  the  heathen  there  in  the  bay. 

All  suddenly  the  red  light  paled. 
And  the  rain  rang  out  on  the  sea; 

Then  —  a  dazzling  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 
Between  us  and  Tripoli! 

Then,  nothing  behind  us,  and  nothing  be 
fore, 

Only  the  silence  and  rain; 
And  the  jaws  of  the  sea  took  hold  of  our 

bows 
And  cast  us  up  again. 

By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the  Bashaw  swore 

He  would  scourge  us  from  the  seas ; 
Yankees  should  trouble  his  soul  no  more  — 


By  the  Prophets  beard  the  Bashaw  swore, 

TJien  lighted  his  hookah  and  took  his  ease, 
And  troubled  his  soul  no  more. 

BARRETT  EASTMAN. 

Arrangements  were  made  to  bombard  the  port 
and  a  concerted  attack  was  made  August  3,  1804. 
Two  gunboats  were  captured  and  three  sunk,  and 
the  shore  batteries  badly  damaged.  Attack  after 
attack  followed,  and  the  war  was  finally  ended  by 
Tripoli  renouncing  all  claim  to  tribute  and  releas 
ing  all  American  prisoners.  It  was  during  the  first 
assault  that  Reuben  James  saved  Decatur's  life. 

REUBEN  JAMES 

[August  3,  18041 

THREE  ships  of  war  had  Preble  when  he  left 

the  Naples  shore, 
And  the  knightly  king  of  Naples  lent  him 

seven  galleys  more, 
And  never  since  the  Argo  floated  in  the  middle 

sea 
Such  noble  men  and  valiant  have  sailed  in 

company 
As  the  men  who  went  with  Preble  to  the  siege 

of  Tripoli. 
Stewart,   Bainbridge,   Hull,   Decatur  —  how 

their  names  ring  out  like  gold !  — 
Lawrence,  Porter,  Trippe,  Macdonough,  and 

a  score  as  true  and  bold; 
Every  star  that  lights  their  banner  tells  the 

glory  that  they  won; 
But  one  common  sailor's  glory  is  the  splendor 

of  the  sun. 

Reuben  James  was  first  to  follow  when  De 
catur  laid  aboard 

Of  the  lofty  Turkish  galley  and  in  battle  broke 
his  sword. 

Then  the  pirate  captain  smote  him,  till  his 
blood  was  running  fast, 

And  they  grappled  and  they  struggled,  and 
they  fell  beside  the  mast. 

Close  behind  him  Reuben  battled  with  a 
dozen,  undismayed, 

Till  a  bullet  broke  his  sword-arm,  and  he 
dropped  the  useless  blade. 

Then  a  swinging  Turkish  sabre  clove  his  left 
and  brought  him  low, 

Like  a  gallant  bark,  dismasted;  at  the  mercy 
of  the  foe. 

Little  mercy  knows  the  corsair :  high  his  blade 
was  raised  to  slay, 

When  a  richer  prize  allured  him  where  Deca 
tur  struggling  lay. 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S   RIDE 


283 


"  Help ! "  the  Turkish  leader  shouted,  and  his 
trusty  comrade  sprung. 

And  his  scimetar  like  lightning  o'er  the  Yan 
kee  captain  swung. 

Reuben  James,  disabled,  armless,  saw  the 
sabre  flashed  on  high, 

Saw  Decatur  shrink  before  it,  heard  the  pi 
rate's  taunting  cry, 

Saw,  in  half  the  time  I  tell  it,  how  a  sailor 
brave  and  true 

Still  might  show  a  bloody  pirate  what  a  dying 
man  can  do. 

Quick  he  struggled,  stumbling,  sliding  in  the 
blood  around  his  feet, 

As  the  Turk  a  moment  waited  to  make  ven 
geance  doubly  sweet. 

Swift  the  sabre  fell,  but  swifter  bent  the  sail 
or's  head  below, 

And  upon  his  'fenceless  forehead  Reuben 
James  received  the  blow! 

So  was  saved  our  brave  Decatur ;  so  the  com 
mon  sailor  died; 

So  the  love  that  moves  the  lowly  lifts  the  great 
to  fame  and  pride. 

Yet  we  grudge  him  not  his  honors,  for  whom 
love  like  this  had  birth  — 

For  God  never  ranks  His  sailors  by  the  Regis 
ter  of  earth ! 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

In  the  spring  of  1808  the  schooner  Betsy,  of 
Marblehead,  commanded  by  "Skipper  Ireaon," 
sighted  a  wreck  while  passing  Cape  Cod  on  her 
way  home  from  the  West  Indies.  It  was  dark  at 
the  time,  and  the  sea  was  running  high,  so  tha't 
she  was  unable  to  render  any  assistance.  An 
other  vessel  soon  afterwards  rescued  the  people 
on  the  wreck,  and  they  reached  shore  in  season 
for  news  of  the  occurrence  to  reach  Marblehead 
before  the  Betsy's  arrival.  A  crowd  met  the  vessel 
at  the  wharf,  and  the  sailors,  when  called  to  ac 
count,  protested  that  Ireson  would  not  let  them 
go  to  the  relief  of  the  wrecked  vessel.  The  mob 
thereupon  seized  the  unfortunate  skipper,  and 
putting  him  into  an  old  dory,  started  to  drag  him 
to  Beverly,  where  they  said  he  belonged,  in  order 
to  show  him  to  his  own  people. 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 

[1808] 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 


Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson 's  out  from  Marblehead! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred   and   feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  fowl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt. 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With   conch-shells   blowing   and   fish-horns' 

twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an*  futherr'd  an*  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Small  pity  for  him !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — • 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck! 
"  Lay  by !  lay  by ! "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again ! " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred   and   feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 


284 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane. 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim. 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson.  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors!"  at  last  he  cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead ! " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,"  God  has  touched  him !  why  should  we ! " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run!" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Later  investigation  proved  that  Ireson  was  in 
BO  way  responsible  for  the  abandonment  of  the 


disabled  ship,  and  that  his  crew  had  lied  in  order 
to  save  themselves. 

A  PLEA  FOR  FLOOD  IRESON 

[1808] 

OLD  Flood  Ireson !   all  too  long 
Have  jeer  and  gibe  and  ribald  song 
Done  thy  memory  cruel  wrong. 

Old  Flood  Ireson,  bending  low 
Under  the  weight  of  years  and  woe, 
Crept  to  his  refuge  long  ago. 

Old  Flood  Ireson  sleeps  in  his  grave; 
Howls  of  a  mad  mob,  worse  than  the  wave, 
Now  no  more  in  his  ear  shall  rave! 


Gone  is  the  pack  and  gone  the  prey. 
Yet  old  Flood  Ireson 's  ghost  to-day 
Is  hunted  still  down  Time's  highway. 

Old  wife  Fame,  with  a  fish-horn's  blare 
Hooting  and  tooting  the  same  old  air, 
Drags  him  along  the  old  thoroughfare. 

Mocked  evermore  with  the  old  refrain, 
Skilfully  wrought  to  a  tuneful  strain, 
Jingling  and  jolting  he  comes  again 

Over  that  road  of  old  renown, 
Fair  broad  avenue,  leading  down 
Through  South  Fields  to  Salem  town, 

Scourged  and  stung  by  the  Muses'  thong, 
Mounted  high  on  the  car  of  song, 
Sight  that  cries,  O  Lord!   how  long 

Shall  heaven  look  on  and  not  take  part 
With  the  poor  old  man  and  his  fluttering 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart? 

Old  Flood  Ireson,  now  when  Fame 
Wipes  away  with  tears  of  shame 
Stains  from  many  an  injured  name, 

Shall  not,  in  the  tuneful  line. 
Beams  of  truth  and  mercy  shine 
Through  the  clouds  that  darken  thine? 

Take  henceforth,  perturbed  sprite, 

From  the  fever  and  the  fright, 

Take  the  rest,  —  thy  well-earned  right 


THE   TIMES 


285 


Along  the  track  of  that  hard  ride 
The  form  of  Penitence  oft  shall  glide, 
With  tender  Pity  by  her  side; 


And  their  tears,  that  mingling  fall 

On  the  dark  record  they  recall, 

Shall  cleanse  the  stain  and  expiate  all. 

CHAKLES  TIMOTHY  BROOKS, 


CHAPTER   II 


THE   SECOND   WAR   WITH    ENGLAND 


The  treaty  of  peace  with  England  which  closed 
the  Revolution  provided  for  the  payment  of  Eng 
lish  creditors  and  the  restoration  of  confiscated 
estates,  but  the  individual  states  refused  to  carry 
out  this  agreement,  and  England,  in  consequence, 
retained  possession  of  some  of  the  Western  posts. 
To  this  were  soon  added  other  causes  of  annoy 
ance,  principal  among  which  was  the  right  claimed 
by  England  to  impress  into  her  service  seamen  of 
British  birth,  wherever  found,  and  to  stop  and 
search  the  ships  of  the  United  States  for  this 
purpose. 

THE  TIMES 

YE  brave  sons  of  Freedom,  come  join  in  the 

chorus, 

At  the  dangers  of  war  do  not  let  us  re 
pine, 

But  sing  and  rejoice  at  the  prospect  before  us, 
And  drink  it  success  in  a  bumper  of  wine. 
At  the  call  of  the  nation, 
Let  each  to  his  station, 
And  resist  depredation, 
Which  our  country  degrades; 
Ere  the  conflict  is  over, 
Our  rights  we'll  recover, 
Or  punish  whoever 
Our  honor  invades. 

We're  abused  and  insulted,  our  country's 

degraded, 
Our  rights  are  infringed  both  by  land  and 

by  sea; 
Let  us  rouse  up,  indignant,  when  those  rights 

are  invaded, 

And  announce  to  the  world,  "  We  're  united 
and  free!" 

By  our  navy's  protection 
W'e'Il  make  our  election, 
And  in  every  direction 
Our  trade  shall  be  free; 
No  British  oppression, 
No  Gallic  aggression 
Shall  disturb  the  possession 
We  claim  to  the  sea. 


Then  Columbia's  ships  shall  sail  on  the  ocean, 

And  the  nations  of  Europe  respect  us  at  last : 

Our  stars  and  our  stripes  shall  command  their 

devotion, 

And  Liberty  perch  on  the  top  of  the  mast. 
Though  Bono,  and  John  Bull 
Continue  their  long  pull, 
Till  ambition's  cup-full 
Be  drain 'd  to  the  lees; 
By  wisdom  directed, 
By  tyrants  respected, 
By  cannon  protected, 
We'll  traverse  the  seas. 

Though  vile  combinations  to  sever  the  Union 
Be  projected  with  caution  and  managed 

with  care, 
Though   traitors   and   Britons,    in   sweetest 

communion, 

Their  patriot  virtue  unite  and  compare, 
American  thunder 
Shall  rend  it  asunder. 
And  ages  shall  wonder 
At  the  deeds  we  have  done: 
And  every  Tory 
When  he  hears  of  the  story, 
Shall  repine  at  the  glory 
Our  heroes  have  won. 

Let   local   attachments   be   condemn'd   and 

discarded, 
Distrust   and   suspicion   be  banish'd   the 

mind, 

Let  union,  our  safety,  be  ever  regarded. 
When   improved   by   example,   by   virtue 
refined. 

Our  ancestors  brought  it, 
Our  sages  have  taught  it, 
Our  Washington  bought  it, 
'T  is  our  glory  and  boast.' 
No  factions  shall  ever 
Our  government  sever, 
But  "Union  forever," 
Shall  be  our  last  toast. 


286 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Measures  so  outrageous  made  war  seemingly 
inevitable;  but  Washington,  through  the  Jay 
Treaty,  managed  to  patch  up  a  peace.  In  1805 
England,  hard-pressed  by  Napoleon,  again  as 
serted  the  "right  of  search,"  and  her  war-vessels 
stopped  merchantmen  and  cruisers  alike  and  took 
off  all  persons  whom  the  British  commanders 
chose  to  regard  as  British  subjects.  Congress  re 
taliated  by  prohibiting  commerce  with  England. 
The  embargo  went  into  effect  in  January,  1808, 
and  aroused  sectional  feeling  to  such  an  extent 
that  New  England  threatened  secession  from  the 
Union. 

REPARATION  OR  WAR 

WRITTEN    DURING    THE    EMBARGO 

REJOICE,    rejoice,    brave    patriots,    re 
joice  ! 
Our  martial  sons  take  a  bold  and  manly 

stand ! 

Rejoice,  rejoice,  exulting  raise  your  voice, 
Let  union  pervade  our  happy  land. 
The  altar  of   Liberty   shall    never   be  pol 
luted, 

But  freedom  expand  and  flourish,  firm  and 
deeply  rooted. 

Our  eagle,  towering  high, 
Triumphantly  shall  fly, 
While  men  like  JEFFERSON  preside  to  serve 

their  country! 

Huzza!  huzza!  boys,  etc.,  etc. 
With  firmness  we'll  resent  our  wrongs  sus- 

tain'd  at  sea; 
Huzza!  huzza!  etc.,  etc. 
For  none  but  slaves  will  bend  to  tyranny. 

To  arms,  to  arms,  with   ardor   rush  to 

arms, 
Our  injured  rights  have  long  for  vengeance 

cried. 
To  arms,  to  arms,   prepare  for  war's 

alarms, 

If  honest  reparation  be  denied. 
Though  feeble  counteracting  plans,  or  foreign 

combinations, 

May  interdict  awhile  our  trade,  against  the 

law  of  nations, 

The  embargo  on  supplies 

Shall  open  Europe's  eyes; 

Proclaiming  unto  all  the  world,  "Columbia 

will  be  free." 
Huzza!  huzza!  etc.,  etc. 
With  honor  we'll  maintain  a  just  neutrality. 

Huzza!  huzza!  etc.,  etc. 
For  none  but  slaves  will  bend  to  tyranny. 


Defend,  defend,  ye  heroes  and  ye  sages, 
The  gift  divine  —  your  independency ! 
Transmit    with    joy,    down    to    future 

ages, 

How  Washington  achieved  your  liberty. 
When  freemen  are  insulted,  they  send  forth 

vengeful  thunder, 

Determined  to  maintain  their  rights,  strike 
the  foe  with  wonder. 
They  cheerfully  will  toil, 
To  cultivate  the  soil, 
And  rather  live  on  humble  fare  than  feast 

ignobly. 

Huzza !  huzza !  etc.,  etc. 
United,  firm  we  stand,  invincible  and  free, 

Huzza!  huzza!  etc.,  etc. 
Then  none  but  slaves  shall  bend  to  tyranny. 

The  opponents  of  the  embargo  termed  the  con 
flict  a  "terrapin  war,"  —  the  nation,  by  extin 
guishing  commerce,  drawing  within  its  own  shell 
like  a  terrapin;  and  at  gatherings  of  the  Federal 
ists,  a  song  by  that  title  was  very  popular. 

TERRAPIN  WAR 

HUZZA  for  our  liberty,  boys, 

These  are  the  days  of  our  glory  — 
The  days  of  true  national  joys, 

When  terrapins  gallop  before  ye! 
There's  Porter  and  Grundy  and  Rhea, 

In  Congress  who  manfully  vapor, 
Who  draw  their  six  dollars  a  day, 

And  fight  bloody  battles  on  paper  I 
Ah!  this  is  true  Terrapin  war. 

Poor  Madison  the  tremors  has  got, 

'Bout  this  same  arming  the  nation; 
Too  far  to  retract,  he  cannot 

Go  on  —  and  he  loses  his  station. 
Then  bring  up  your  "regulars,"  lads, 

In  "attitude"  nothing  ye  lack,  sirs, 
Ye '11  frighten  to  death  the  Danads, 

With  fire-coals  blazing  aback,  sirs! 
Ok,  this  is  true  Terrapin  war! 

As  to  powder  and  bullets  and  swords, 

For,  as  they  were  never  intended, 
They're  a  parcel  of  high-sounding  words, 

But  never  to  action  extended. 
Ye  must  frighten  the  rascals  away, 

In  "rapid  descent"  on  their  quarters; 
Then  the  plunder  divide  as  ye  may, 

And  drive  them  headlong  in  the  waters 
Oh,  this  is  great  Terrapin  war! 


HULL'S   SURRENDER 


287 


But  the  hostility  to  Great  Britain  grew  steadily 
more  bitter,  and  the  war  party  was  led  by  such 
able  men  as  Henry  Clay  and  John  C.  Calhoun. 
Various  incidents  tended  to  fan  the  flames,  and 
on  June  18,  1812,  war  was  declared. 

FAREWELL,   PEACE 

[June  18,  1812] 

FAREWELL,  Peace!  another  crisis 

Calls  us  to  "the  last  appeal," 
Made  when  monarchs  and  their  vices 

Leave  no  argument  but  steel. 
When  injustice  and  oppression 

Dare  avow  the  tyrant's  plea. 
Who  would  recommend  submission? 

Virtue  bids  us  to  be  free. 

History  spreads  her  page  before  us, 

Time  unrolls  his  ample  scroll; 
Truth  unfolds  them,  to  assure  us, 

States,  united,  ne'er  can  fall. 
See,  in  annals  Greek  and  Roman, 

What  immortal  deeds  we  find; 
W7hen  those  gallant  sons  of  woman 

In  their  country's  cause  combined. 

Sons  of  Freedom !  brave  descendants 

From  a  race  of  heroes  tried, 
To  preserve  our  independence 

Let  all  Europe  be  defied. 
Let  not  all  the  world,  united, 

Rob  us  of  one  sacred  right: 
Every  patriot  heart's  delighted 

In  his  country's  cause  to  fight. 

Come  then,  War!  with  hearts  elated 

To  thy  standard  we  will  fly; 
Every  bosom  animated 

Either  to  live  free  or  die. 
May  the  wretch  that  shrinks  from  duty, 

Or  deserts  the  glorious  strife, 
Never  know  the  smile  of  beauty, 

Nor  the  blessing  of  a  wife. 

The  Federalists  claimed  that  war  had  been 
declared,  not  to  avenge  the  country's  wrongs  upon 
the  ocean ,  but  to  conquer  Canada.  Canada  was,  in 
deed,  the  first  objective,  and  troops  were  enlisted 
and  hurried  forward  to  the  various  northern  posts. 

COME,  YE  LADS,  WHO  WISH  TO 
SHINE 

COME,  ye  lads,  who  wish  to  shine 
Bright  in  future  story. 


Haste  to  arms,  and  form  the  line 
That  leads  to  martial  glory. 

Beat  the  drum,  the  trumpet  sound, 

Manly  and  united, 
Danger  face,  maintain  your  ground. 
And  see  your  country  righted. 

Columbia,  when  her  eagle's  roused, 

And  her  flag  is  rearing 
Will  always  find  her  sons  disposed 

To  drub  the  foe  that's  daring. 
Beat  the  drum,  etc 

Hearts  of  oak,  protect  the  coast, 

Pour  your  naval  thunder, 
While  on  shore  a  mighty  host 

Shall  strike  the  world  with  wonder. 
Beat  the  drum,  etc. 

Haste  to  Quebec's  towering  walls, 

Through  the  British  regions; 
Hark !  Montgomery's  spirit  calls, 

Drive  the  hostile  legions. 
Beat  the  drum,  etc. 

Honor  for  the  brave  to  share 

Is  the  noblest  booty; 
Guard  your  rights,  protect  the  fair, 

For  that's  a  soldier's  duty. 
Beat  the  drum,  etc. 

Charge  the  musket,  point  the  lance, 

Brave  the  worst  of  dangers; 
Tell  to  Britain  and  to  France, 

That  we  to  fear  are  strangers. 
Beat  the  drum,  etc. 

The  Canadian  campaign  was  soon  to  end  igno- 
miniously  enough.  In  July,  General  Hull,  governoi 
of  Michigan  territory,  crossed  from  Detroit  into 
Canada,  then  crossed  back  again,  and  on  August 
16,  without  striking  a  blow,  surrendered  Detroit 
and  his  entire  army  to  the  British  under  General 
Brock.  Hull  was  afterwards  tried  by  court-martial, 
convicted  of  cowardice,  and  sentenced  to  be  shot, 
but  the  sentence  was  commuted. 

HULL'S  SURRENDER 

OR,  VILLANY  SOMEWHERE 
[August  16,  1812] 

YE  Columbians  so  bold,  attend  while  I  sing; 
Sure  treason  and  treachery 's  not  quite  the 
thing, 


288 


At  a  time  like  the  present,  we  ought,  one  and 

all, 
In  defence  of  our  rights,  to  stand  nobly  or  fall. 

Chorus 
Then  let  traitors  be  banish'd  Columbia's 

fair  shore, 
And  treason  be  known  in  her  borders  no 

more. 

With  a  brave,  gallant  army  HULL  went  to 

Detroit, 

And  swore  he'd  accomplish  a  noble  exploit; 
That  the  British  and  Indians  he  'd  conquer 

outright, 

And  give  cause  to  his  country  of  joy  and 
delight. 

Chorus 
But  if  traitors  still  dwell  on  Columbia's 

fair  shore, 
O  let  it  be  known  in  her  borders  no  more. 

Ah !  quickly  alas !  defeat  and  disgrace 
Star'd  our  brave  noble  soldiers  quite  full  in 

the  face, 
When  they  thought  that  the  victory  was  sure 

to  be  won, 
Their  general  gave  up,  vnihout  firing  a  gun. 

Chorus 
Then  do  traitors  still  dwell  on  Columbia's 

fair  shore, 
IF  THEY  DO,  let  them  dwell  in  her  borders 

no  more ! 

Those  heroes,  who  bravely  on  the  Wabash 

had  fought, 

Who  for  glory  successfully  nobly  had  sought, 
Where  the  favor  denied  of  asserting   their 

wrongs, 
And  deprived  of  that  right  which  to  freemen 

belongs. 

Chorus 
Then  if  treason  still  dwell  on  Columbia's 

fair  shore, 
O  let  it  be  known  in  her  borders  no  more ! 

Is  it  true  that  our  soldiers  were  wrongfully 

us'd? 
Is  it  true  that  they've  been  by  their  GENERAL 

abus'd  ? 

Is  it  true  that  an  army  so  gallant  were  sold  ? 
Is  it  true  that  COLUMBIANS  were  barter'd  for 

gold? 


Chorus 

If  it  is,  then  does  treason  still  dwell  on  our 

shore, 
But  let  it  be  known  in  our  country  no  more ! 

Ye  heroes  who  fought  by  the  side  of  brave 

Floyd, 

Ye  heroes,  conducted  to  glory  by  Boyd, 
Think  not  that  your  brethren  will  quietly 

bear, 
From  your  brows  that  a  traitor  your  laurels 

should  tear. 

Chorus 

No  —  if  treason  still  dwell  on  Columbia's 

fair  shore, 
It  shall  soon  be  expell'd  to  reside  here  no 

more. 

Then  rouse  ye  brave  freemen,  and  heed  no 

alarms. 
Your  dear  native  country  now  calls  you  to 

arms, 

Away  to  the  battle,  and  count  not  the  cost 
Till  the  glory  you  gain,  which  so  basely  was 

lost. 

Chorus 
For  if  treason  still  dwell  on  Columbia's 

fair  shore. 
By  our  fathers  we  swear  it  shall  dwell  here 

no  more. 


The  fury  which  the  news  of  this  disaster  aroused 
was  tempered  by  rejoicing  for  a  remarkable  vic 
tory  on  the  ocean.  Anxious  to  meet  some  of  thf 
famous  British  frigates,  Captain  Isaac  Hull  put  out 
from  Boston  with  the  Constitution  on  August  2. 
He  sailed  without  orders,  and  had  the  cruise  re 
sulted  disastrously,  he  would  probably  have  been 
court-martialed  and  shot.  On  the  afternoon  of 
August  19,  a  sail  was  sighted  off  Halifax  and 
proved  to  be  the  British  frigate  Guerri&re.  Hull 
at  once  attacked,  and  soon  reduced  the  enemy 
to  a  "perfect  wreck."  The  Constitution  sustained 
little  injury  and  got  safely  back  to  port. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  AND  THE 
GUERRIERE 

[August  19,  1812] 

I  OFTEN  have  been  told 
That  the  British  seamen  bold 
Could   beat   the   tars  of  France   neat   and 
handy  O; 


HALIFAX   STATION 


289 


But  they  never  found  their  match, 
Till  the  Yankees  did  them  catch, 
For   the  Yankee   tars   for   fighting  are  the 
dandy  O. 

O,  the  Guerriere  so  bold 

On  the  foaming  ocean  rolled. 
Commanded  by  Dacres  the  grandee  O; 

For  the  choice  of  British  crew 

That  a  rammer  ever  drew 
Could  beat  the  Frenchmen  two  to  one  quite 
handy  O. 

When  the  frigate  hove  in  view, 
"O,"  said  Dacres  to  his  crew, 

"  Prepare  ye  for  action  and  be  handy  O ; 
On  the  weather-gauge  we'll  get  her." 
And  to  make  his  men  fight  better, 

He   gave    to    them    gunpowder    and    good 
brandy  O. 

Now  this  boasting  Briton  cries, 

"Make  that  Yankee  ship  your  prize. 
You  can  in  thirty  minutes  do  it  handy  O, 

Or  twenty-five,  I'm  sure 

You'll  do  it  in  a  score, 
I  will  give  you  a  double  share  of  good  brandy 
O. 

"When  prisoners  we've  made  them, 
With  switchell  we  will  treat  them, 

We  will  treat  them  with  'Yankee  Doodle 

Dandy'  O;" 

The  British  balls  flew  hot. 
But  the  Yankees  answered  not, 

Until  they  got  a  distance  that  was  handy  O. 

"O,"  cried  Hull  unto  his  crew, 
"We'll  try  what  we  can  do; 
If  we  beat  those  boasting  Britons  we're  the 

dandy  O." 

The  first  broadside  we  poured 
Brought  the  mizzen  by  the  board, 
Which     doused     the    royal     ensign     quite 
handy  O. 

O  Dacres  he  did  sigh, 
And  to  his  officers  did  cry. 
"  I  did  not  think  these   Yankees  were   so 

handy  O." 

The  second  told  so  well 
That  the  fore  and  main-mast  fell, 
Which  made  this   lofty  frigate   look   quite 
handy  O. 


"O,"  says  Dacres,  "we're  undone," 
So  he  fires  a  lee  gun. 
Our  drummer  struck  up  "Yankee  Doodle 

Dandy"  O; 

When  Dacres  came  on  board 
To  deliver  up  his  sword, 
He  was  loth   to  part  with   it,  it   looked  so 
handy  O. 

"You  may  keep  it,"  says  brave  Hull. 

"What  makes  you  look  so  dull? 
Cheer  up  and  take  a  glass  of  good  brandy  O ; " 

O  Britons  now  be  still. 

Since  we've  hooked  you  in  the  gill, 
Don't  boast  upon  Dacres  the  grandee  O. 


HALIFAX   STATION 

[August  19,  1812] 

FROM  Halifax  station  a  bully  there  came, 
To  take  or  be  taken,  call'd  Dacres  byname: 
But  't  was  who  but  a  Yankee  he  met  on  his 

way  — 
Says  the  Yankee  to  him,  "Will  you  stop  and 

take  tea?" 

Then  Dacres  steps  up,  thus  addressing  his 

crew :  — 
"Don't  you  see  that  d — d  flag  that  is  red, 

white,  and  blue; 
Let  us  drum  all  to  quarters,  prepare  for  to 

fight, 
For  in  taking  that  ship  boys,  it  will  make  me 

a  knight." 

Then  up  to  each  mast-head  he  straight  sent  a 

flag, 
Which  shows,  on  the  ocean,  a  proud  British 

brag; 

But  Hull,  being  pleasant,  he  sent  up  but  one, 
And  told  every  seaman  to  stand  true  to  his  gun. 

Then  Hull,  like  a  hero,  before  them  appears, 
And  with  a  short  speech  his  sailors  he  cheers, 
Saying,  "We'll  batter  their  sides,  and  we'll 

do  the  neat  thing: 
We'll  conquer  their  bully,  and  laugh  at  their 

king." 

Then  we  off  with  our  hats  and  gave  him  a 
cheer, 

Swore  we'd  stick  by  brave  Hull,  while  a  sea 
man  could  steer; 


290 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  at  it  we  went  with  mutual  delight, 
For  to  fight  and  to  conquer 's  a  sailor's  free 
right. 

Then  we  crowded  all  sail,  and  we  ran  along 
side, 

And  we  wellfed  our  bull-dogs  with  true  Yan 
kee  pride. 

'T  was  broadside  for  broadside  we  on  them 
did  pour, 

While  cannon's  loud  mouths  at  each  other  did 
roar. 

Says  Dacres,  '"'Fight  on,  and  we'll  have  her 

in  tow. 
We  will  drink  to  Great  Britain,  and  the  cans 

they  shall  flow; 
So  strike,  you  d — d  Yankee,  I'll  make  you 

with  ease:" 
But  the  man  they  call  Hull,  says,  "O  no,  if 

you  please." 

Then  Dacres  wore  ship,  expecting  to  rake; 
But  quite  in  a  hurry,  found  out  his  mistake; 
For  we  luff'd  round  his  bow,  boys,  and  caught 

his  jib-boom. 
And,  in  raking  them  aft,  we  soon  gave  him  his 

doom. 

Then  Dacres  look'd  wild,  and  then  sheath 'd 
his  sword, 

Wlien  he  found  that  his  masts  were  all  gone 
by  the  board, 

And  dropping  astern  cries  out  to  the  stew 
ard, 

"  Come  up  and  be  d— d,  fire  a  gun  to  the  lee 
ward." 

Then  we  off  with  our  hats,  and  we  gave  them 

three  cheers, 
Which  bitterly  stung  all  those  Englishmen's 

ears; 
Saying,  "We'll  fight  for  our  country,  do  all 

things  that's  right, 
And  let  the  woiid  know,  that  green  Yankees 

can  fight." 


ON  THE  CAPTURE  OF  THE  GUER 
RIERE 

[August  19,  1812] 

LONG  the  tyrant  of  our  coast 
Reigned  the  famous  Guerriere; 


Our  little  navy  she  defied, 

Public  ship  and  privateer: 
On  her  sails  in  letters  red, 
To  our  captains  were  displayed 
Words  of  warning,  words  ot  dread, 

"All  who  meet  me,  have  a  care.' 

I  am  England's  Guerriere." 

On  the  wide,  Atlantic  deep 

(Not  her  equal  for  the  fight) 
The  Constitution,  on  her  way, 

Chanced  to  meet  these  men  of  might; 
On  her  sails  was  nothing  said, 
But  her  waist  the  teeth  displayed 
That  a  deal  of  blood  could  shed, 

Which,  if  she  would  venture  near. 

Would  stain  the  decks  of  the  Guerriere 

Now  our  gallant  ship  they  met  — 

And,  to  struggle  with  John  Bull  — 
Who  had  come,  they  little  thought, 

Strangers,  yet,  to  Isaac  Hull: 
Better  soon  to  be  acquainted: 
Isaac  hailed  the  Lord's  anointed  — 
While  the  crew  the  cannon  pointed, 

And  the  balls  were  so  directed 

With  a  blaze  so  unexpected; 

Isaac  so  did  maul  and  rake  her 
That  the  decks  of  Captain  Dacre 
Were  in  such  a  woful  pickle 
As  if  death  with  scythe  and  sickle. 
With  his  sling,  or  with  his  shaft 
Had  cut  his  harvest  fore  and  aft. 
Thus,  in  thirty  minutes  ended, 
Mischiefs  that  could  not  be  mended; 
Masts,  and  yards,  and  ship  descended 
All  to  David  Jones's  locker  — 
Such  a  ship  in  such  a  pucker! 

Drink  a  bout  to  the  Constitution! 

She  performed  some  execution, 

Did  some  share  of  retribution 
For  the  insults  of  the  year 
When  she  took  the  Guerriere. 

May  success  again  await  her, 

Let  who  will  again  command  her, 

Bainbridge,  Rodgers,  or  Decatur  — 
Nothing  like  her  can  withstand  hei. 

With  a  crew  like  that  on  board  her 

Who  so  boldly  called  "to  order" 
One  bold  crew  of  English  sailors. 
Long,  too  long  our  seamen's  jailors, 
Dacre  and  the  Guerriere! 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


FIRSTFRUITS   IN  1812 


291 


FIRSTFRUITS   IN    1812 

[August  19,  1812] 

WHAT  is  that  a-bittowing  there 

Like  a  thunderhead  in  air  f 
Why  should  such  a  sight  be  whitening  the 
seas  ? 

That's  a  Yankee  man-o'-war. 

And  three  things  she 's  seeking  for  — 
For  a  prize,  and  for  a  battle,  and  a  breeze. 

When  the  war  blew  o'er  the  sea 

Out  went  Hull  and  out  went  we 
In  the  Constitution,  looking  for  the  foe; 

But  five  British  ships  came  down  — 

And  we  got  to  Boston-town 
By  a  mighty  narrow  margin,  you  must  know! 

Captain  Hull  can't  fight  their  fleet, 

But  he  fairly  aches  to  meet 
Quite  the  prettiest  British  ship  of  all  there 
were; 

So  he  stands  again  to  sea 

In  the  hope  that  on  his  lee 
He'll  catch  Dacres  and  his  pretty  Guerriere. 

'T  is  an  August  afternoon 

Not  a  day  too  late  or  soon, 
When  we  raise  a  ship  whose  lettered  mainsail 
reads: 

All  who  meet  me  have  a  care, 

I  am  England's  Guerriere  ; 
So  Hull  gayly  clears  for  action  as  he  speeds. 

Cheery  bells  had  chanted  five 

On  the  happiest  day  alive 
When  we  Yankees  dance  to  quarters  at  his 
call; 

While  the  British  bang  away 

With  their  broadsides'  screech  and  bray ; 
But  the  Constitution  never  fires  a  ball. 

We  send  up  three  times  to  ask 
If  we  sha'n't  begin  our  task  ? 

Captain  Hull  sends  back  each  time  the  answer 

No; 

Till  to  half  a  pistol-shot 
The  two  frigates  he  had  brought, 

Then  he  whispers,  Lay  along  ! — and  we  let  go. 

Twice  our  broadside  lights  and  lifts, 
And  the  Briton,  crippled,  drifts 
With  her  mizzen  dangling  hopeless  at   her 
poop: 


Laughs  a  Yankee,  She's  a  brig! 
Says  our  Captain,  That 's  too  big ; 
Try  another,  so  we  'tt  have  her  for  a  sloop  1 

We  hurrah,  and  fire  again. 
Lay  aboard  of  her  like  men, 
And,  like  men,  they  beat  us  off,  and  try  in 

turn; 

But  we  drive  bold  Dacres  back 
With  our  muskets'  snap  and  crack  — 
All  the  while  our  crashing  broadsides  boom 
and  burn. 

'T  is  but  half  an  hour,  bare, 

When  that  pretty  Guerriere 
Not  a  stick  calls  hers  aloft  or  hers  alow, 

Save  the  mizzen 's  shattered  mast, 

Where  her  "meteor  flag"  's  nailed  fast 
Till,   a    fallen   star,   we  quench  its  ruddy 
glow. 

Dacres,  injured,  o'er  our  side 
Slowly  bears  his  sword  of  pride, 
Holds  it  out,  as  Hull  stands  there  in  his  re 
nown  : 

No,  no  !  says  th'  American, 
Never,  from  so  brave  a  man  — 
But  I  see  you're  wounded,  let  me  help  you 
down. 

All  that  night  we  work  in  vain 

Keeping  her  upon  the  main, 
But  we've  nulled  her  far  too  often,  and  at 
last 

In  a  blaze  of  fire  there 

Dies  the  pretty  Guerriere; 
While  away  we  cheerly  sail  upon  the  blast 

Oh,  the  breeze  that  blows  so  free! 

Oh,  the  prize  beneath  the  sea! 
Oh,  the  battle !  —  was  there  ever  better  won  ? 

Still  the  happy  Yankee  cheers 

Are  a-ringing  in  our  ears 
From  old  Boston,  glorying  in  what  we've 
done. 

What  is  that  a-bittowing  there 
Lil:e  a  thunderhead  in  air  f 
Why  should  such  a  sight   be  whitening  the 

seas? 

That's  Old  Ir'nsides,  trim  and  taut, 
And  she 's  found  the  things  she  sought  — 
Found  a  prize,  a  bully  battle,  and  a  breeze! 
WALLACE  RICE. 


292 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


This  victory,  needless  to  say,  greatly  encouraged 
the  Am  ericans,  and  General  Stephen  van  Rensselaer, 
in  command  of  the  northern  army,  determined 
to  try  another  stroke  at  Canada.  On  October  13, 
1812,  he  started  to  cross  the  Niagara  River  with 
six  hundred  men;  but  the  crossing  was  misman 
aged,  the  militia  refused  to  obey  orders,  and  after 
a  gallant  fight  lasting  all  day,  the  Americans  were 
forced  to  surrender  to  an  overwhelming  force  of 
British  and  Indians. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  QUEENSTOWN 

[October  13,  1812] 

WHEN    brave   Van    Rensselaer   cross'd   the 
stream, 

Just  at  the  break  of  day. 
Distressing  thoughts,  a  restless  dream, 

Disturb'd  me  where  I  lay. 

But  all  the  terrors  of  the  night 

Did  quickly  flee  away: 
My  opening  eyes  beheld  the  light, 

And  hail'd  the  new-born  day. 

Soon  did  the  murdering  cannon's  roar 

Put  blood  in  all  my  veins; 
Columbia's  sons  have  trod  the  shore 

Where  the  proud  Britain  reigns. 

To  expose  their  breast  to  cannon's  ball, 
Their  country's  rights  to  save, 

0  what  a  grief  to  see  them  fall! 
True  heroes,  bold  and  brave! 

The  musket's  flash,  the  cannon's  glow, 
Thunder'd  and  lighten'd  round, 

Struck  dread  on  all  the  tawny  foe, 
And  swept  them  to  the  ground. 

1  thought  what  numbers  must  be  slain, 
What  weeping  widows  left! 

And  aged  parents  full  of  pain, 
Of  every  joy  bereft. 

The  naked  savage  yelling  round 

Our  heroes  where  they  stood. 
And  every  weapon  to  be  found 

Was  bathed  in  human  blood. 

But  bold  Van  Rensselaer,  full  of  wounds, 

Was  quickly  carried  back; 
Brave  Colonel  Bloom  did  next  command 

The  bloody  fierce  attack. 


Where  Brock,  the  proud  insulter,  rides 

In  pomp  and  splendor  great; 
Our  valiant  heroes  he  derides, 

And  dared  the  power  of  fate. 

"  Here  is  a  mark  for  Yankee  boys, 

So  shoot  me  if  you  can : " 
A  Yankee  ball  soon  closed  his  eyes, 

Death  found  him  but  a  man. 

They  slaughter'd  down  the  tawny  foe, 

And  Britons  that  were  near; 
They  dealt  out  death  at  every  blow, 

The  battle  was  severe. 

Five  battles  fought  all  in  one  day, 
Through  four  victorious  stood, 

But  ah !  the  fifth  swept  all  away, 
And  spilt  our  heroes'  blood. 

The  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife 

On  them  did  try  their  skill; 
Some  wounded,  struggling  for  their  life, 

Did  black  barbarians  kill. 

Brave  Wadsworth  boldly  kept  the  field 

Till  their  last  bullets  flew; 
Then  all  were  prisoners  forced  to  yield, 

What  could  the  general  do  ? 

Militia  men !   O  fie  for  shame ! 

Thus  you  your  country  flee. 
'T  is  you  at  last  will  bear  the  blame 

For  loss  of  victory. 

When  mild  Van  Rensselaer  did  command, 

You  would  not  him  obey; 
But  stood  spectators  on  the  strand, 

To  see  the  bloody  fray. 

The  number  kill'd  was  seventy-four, 
Prisoners,  seven  hundred  sixty-nine, 

Wounded,  two  hundred  or  more, 
Who  languish'd  in  great  pain. 

Some  have  already  lost  their  lives, 

And  others  like  to  go; 
But  few,  I  fear,  will  tell  their  wives 

The  doleful  tale  of  wo. 

WILLIAM  BANKER,  JR. 


But  disasters  on  land  seemed  fated  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  victories  on  the  water.  About  noon  of 
October  18,  1812,  the  American  18-gun  sloop  of 
war,  Wasp,  encountered  the  20-gun  British  brig, 


THE   UNITED    STATES   AND   MACEDONIAN 


293 


Frolic,  off  Albemarle  Sound,  and,  after  a  severe 
action,  boarded  and  compelled  her  to  surrender. 
Shortly  afterwards,  a  sail  hove  in  sight,  which 
proved  to  be  the  British  74,  Poictiers,  and,  running 
down  on  the  sloops,  she  seized  both  the  Wasp  and 
her  prize  and  carried  them  to  Bermuda. 

THE  WASP'S  FROLIC 

[October  18,  1812] 

T  WAS  on  board  the  sloop  of  war  Wasp,  boys, 
We  set  sail  from  Delaware  Bay, 

To  cruise  on  Columbia's  fair  coast,  sirs, 
Our  rights  to  maintain  on  the  sea. 

Three    days   were  not   passed  on  our  sta 
tion, 

When  the  Frolic  came  up  to  our  view; 
Says  Jones,   'Show  the  flag  of  our  nation;" 

Three  cheers  were  then  gave  by  our  crew. 

We  boldly  bore  up  to  this  Briton, 
Whose  cannon  began  for  to  roar; 

The  Wasp   soon   her  stings  from  her  side 

ran, 
When  we  on  them  a  broadside  did  pour. 

Each  sailor  stood  firm  at  his  quarters, 
'T  was  minutes  past  forth  and  three, 

When  fifty  bold  Britons  were  slaughtered, 
Whilst  our  guns  swept  their  masts  in  the 
sea. 

Their  breasts  then  with  valor  still  glowing, 
Acknowledged  the  battle  we'd  won, 

On  us  then  bright  laurels  bestowing, 
When  to  leeward  they  fired  a  gun. 

On  their  decks  we  the  twenty  guns  counted, 
With  a  crew  for  to  answer  the  same; 

Eighteen  was  the  number  we  mounted, 
Being  served  by  the  lads  of  true  game. 

With  the  Frolic  in  tow.  we  were  standing, 
All  in  for  Columbia's  fair  shore; 

But  fate  on  our  laurels  was  frowning, 
We  were  taken  by  a  seventy-four. 

A  more  signal  victory  was  goon  to  be  recorded. 
On  the  morning  of  October  25,  1812,  near  the 
Canary  Islands,  the  British  38-gun  frigate,  Mace 
donian,  was  overhauled  by  the  American  44, 
United  States,  and  an  hour  after  the  action  began, 
was  reduced  to  a  wreck  by  the  terrible  fire  of  the 
American.  A  prize  crew  was  put  aboard,  repaired 
her,  and  got  her  safely  to  New  York. 


THE  UNITED  STATES  AND  MACE 
DONIAN 

[October  25,  1812] 

How  glows  each  patriot  bosom  that  boasts  a 

Yankee  heart, 
To  emulate  such  glorious  deeds  and  nobly 

take  a  part; 

When  sailors  with  their  thund'ring  guns, 
Prove  to  the  English,  French,  and  Danes 
That  Neptune's  chosen  fav'rite  sons 
Are  brave  Yankee  boys. 

The  twenty-fifth  of  October,  that  glorious 

happy  day. 
When  we  beyond  all  precedent,  from  Britons 

bore  the  sway,  — 
'T  was  in  the  ship  United  States, 
Four  and  forty  guns  the  rates, 
That  she  should  rule,  decreed  the  Fates. 
And  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Decatur  and  his  hardy  tars  were  cruising  on 

the  deep, 
When  off  the  Western  Islands  they  to  and  fro 

did  sweep. 

The  Macedonian  they  espied, 
"Huzza!   bravo!"  Decatur  cried, 
"We'll  humble  Britain's  boasted  pride, 
My  brave  Yankee  boys." 

The    decks    were    cleared,    the    hammocks 

stowed,  the  boatswain  pipes  all  hands, 

The  tompions  out,  the  guns  well  sponged,  the 

Captain  now  commands; 
The  boys  who  for  their  country  fight, 
Their  words,  "Free  Trade  and  Sailor's 

Rights!" 

Three  times  they  cheered  with  all  their 
might. 

Those  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Now  chain-shot,  grape,  and  langrage  pierce 

through  her  oaken  sides. 
And    many    a    gallant    sailor's    blood    runs 

purpling  in  the  tides; 
While  death  flew  nimbly  o'er  their  decks, 
Some  lost  their  legs,  and  some  their  necks, 
And  Glory's  wreath  our  ship  be-decks, 
For  brave  Yankee  boys. 

My  boys,  the  proud  St.  George's  Cross,  the 

stripes  above  it  wave, 
And  busy  are  our  gen'rous  tars,  the  conquered 

foe  to  save, 


294 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Our  Captain  cries  "  Give  me  your  hand," 
Then  of  the  ship  who  took  command 
But  brave  Yankee  boys  ? 

Our  enemy  lost  her  mizzen,  her  main  and 

fore-topmast, 
For  ev'ry  shot  with  death  was  winged,  which 

slew  her  men  so  fast, 
That  they  lost  five  to  one  in  killed. 
And  ten  to  one  their  blood  was  spilled, 
So  Fate  decreed  and  Heaven  had  willed. 
For  brave  Yankee  boys. 

Then  homeward  steered  the  captive  ship,  now 

safe  in  port  she  lies, 
The  old  and  young  with  rapture  viewed  our 

sailors'  noble  prize; 
Through  seas  of  wine  their  health  we'll 

drink, 
And  wish  them  sweet-hearts,  friends,  and 

chink, 

Who  'fore  they'd  strike,  will  nobly  sink 
Our  brave  Yankee  boys. 

THE    UNITED    STATES   AND 
MACEDONIAN 

[October  25,  1812] 

THE  banner  of  Freedom  high  floated  unfurled, 
While  the  silver-tipt  surges  in  low  homage 

curled. 
Flashing  bright  round  the  bow  of  Decatur's 

brave  bark* 

In  contest,  an  "eagle"  —  in  chasing,  a  "lark." 
The  bold  United  States, 
Which  four-and-forty  rates, 
Will  ne'er  be  known  to  yield  —  be  known  to 

yield  or  fly, 
Her  motto  is  "  Glory !  we  conquer  or  we  die." 

All  canvas  expanded  to  woo  the  coy  gale. 
The  ship  cleared  for  action,  in  chase  of  a  sail; 
The  foemen  in  view,  every  bosom  beats  high, 
All  eager  for  conquest,  or  ready  to  die. 

Now  havoc  stands  ready,  with  optics  of  flame, 
And  battle-hounds  "strain  on  the  start"  for 

the  game; 
The  blood  demons  rise  on  the  surge  for  their 

prey, 
While  Pity,  rejected,  awaits  the  dread  fray. 

The  gay  floating  streamers  of  Britain  appear, 
Waving  light  on  the  breeze  as  the  stranger  we 
near; 


And   now  could   the  quick-sighted   Yankee 

discern 
"Macedonian,"  emblazoned  at  large  on  her 

stern. 

She  waited  our  approach,  and  the  contest  be 
gan, 

But  to  waste  ammunition  is  no  Yankee  plan ; 

In  awful  suspense  every  match  was  withheld, 

While  the  bull-dogs  of  Britain  incessantly 
yelled. 

Unawed  by  her  thunders,  alongside  we  came, 
While  the  foe  seemed  enwrapped  in  a  mantle 

of  flame; 
When,  prompt  to  the  word,  such  a  flood  we 

return, 
That  Neptune,  aghast,  thought  his  trident 

would  burn. 

Now  the  lightning  of  battle  gleams  horridly 

red, 

With  a  tempest  of  iron  and  hail-storm  of  lead ; 
And  our  fire  on  the  foe  we  so  copiously  poured, 
His  mizzen  and  topmasts  soon  went  by  the 

board. 

So  fierce  and  so  bright  did  our  flashes  aspire, 
They  thought  that  their  cannon  had  set  us  on 

fire, 
"The  Yankee's  in  flames!  "  —  every  British 

tar  hears, 
And  hails  the  false  omen  with  three  hearty 

cheers. 

In  seventeen  minutes  they  found  their  mis 
take, 

And  were  glad  to  surrender  and  fall  in  our 
wake; 

Her  decks  were  with  carnage  and  blood 
deluged  o'er, 

Where  welt'ring  in  blood  lay  an  hundred  and 
four. 

But  though  she  was  made  so  completely  a 

wreck, 
With  blood  they  had  scarcely  encrimsoned 

our  deck; 
Only  five  valiant  Yankees  in  the  contest  were 

slain. 
And  our  ship  in  five  minutes  was  fitted  again. 

Let  Britain  no  longer  lay  claim  to  the  seas, 
For  the  trident  of  Neptune  is  ours,  if  we 
please, 


JACK   CREAMER 


295 


While  Hull  and  Decatur  and  Jones  are  our 

boast, 
We  dare  their  whole  navy  to  come  on  our  coast. 

Rise,  tars  of  Columbia !  —  and  share  in  the 
fame, 

Which  gilds  Hull's,  Decatur's,  and  Jones's 
bright  name; 

Fill  a  bumper,  and  drink,  "Here's  success  to 
the  cause, 

But    Decatur    supremely   deserves   our   ap 
plause." 

The  bold  United  States, 
Which  four-and-forty  rates. 

Shall  ne'er  be  known  to  yield  —  be  known  to 
yie'd  or  fly, 

Her  motto  is  "Glory!  we  conquer  or  we  die." 


The  United  States  was  commanded  by  Captain 
Stephen  Decatur,  and  just  before  she  engaged  the 
Macedonian  an  incident  occurred  which  showed 
his  crew's  unbounded  confidence  in  him. 


JACK  -CREAMER 

[October  25,  1812] 

THE  boarding  nettings  are  triced  for  fight; 

Pike  and  cutlass  are  shining  bright; 

The  boatswain's  whistle  pipes  loud  and  shrill; 

Gunner  and  topman  work  with  a  will; 

Rough  old  sailor  and  reefer  trim 

Jest  as  they  stand  by  the  cannon  grim; 

There's  a  fighting  glint  in  Decatur's  eye. 

And  brave  Old  Glory  floats  out  on  high. 

But  many  a  heart  beats  fast  below 
The  laughing  lips  as  they  near  the  foe; 
For   the   pluckiest   knows,   though   no  man 

quails. 

That  the  breath  of  death  is  filling  the  sails. 
Only  one  little  face  is  wan; 
Only  one  childish  mouth  is  drawn; 
One  little  heart  is  sad  and  sore 
To  the  watchful  eye  of  the  Commodore. 
Little  Jack  Creamer,  ten  years  old, 
In  no  purser's  book  or  watch  enrolled, 
Must  mope  or  skulk  while  his  shipmates 

fight,  — 
No  wonder  his  little  face  is  white! 

"Why,  Jack,  old  man.  so  blue  and  sad? 
Afraid  of  the  music  ?  "   The  face  of  the  lad 
With  mingled  shame  and  anger  burns. 
Quick  to  the  Commodore  he  turns: 


"I'm  not  a  coward,  but  I  think  if  you  — 
Excuse  me,  Capt'n,  I  mean  if  you  knew 
(I  s'pose  it's  because  I'm  young  and  small) 
I'm  not  on  the  books!  I'm  no  one  at  all! 
And  as  soon  as  this  fighting  work  is  done, 
And  we  get  our  prize-money,  every  one 
Has  his  share  of  the  plunder  —  I  get  none." 

"  And  you  're  sure  we  shall  take  her  ? "  "  Sure  ? 

Why,  sir, 

She's  only  a  blessed  Britisher! 
We'll  take  her  easy  enough,  I  bet; 
But  glory 's  all  that  I  'm  going  to  get ! " 
"Glory!  I  doubt  if  I  get  more. 
If  I  get  so  much,"  said  the  Commodore; 
"  But  faith  goes  far  in  the  race  for  fame, 
And  down  on  the  books  shall  go  your  name." 

Bravely  the  little  seaman  stood 
To  his  post  while  the  scuppers  ran  with  blood, 
While  grizzled  veterans  looked  and  smiled 
And  gathered  new  courage  from  the  child; 
Till  the  enemy,  crippled  in  pride  and  might, 
Struck  his  crimson  flag  and  gave  up  the  fight. 
Then  little  Jack  Creamer  stood  once  more 
Face  to  face  with  the  Commodore. 

"You  have  got  your  glory,"  he  said,  "my  lad, 
And  money  to  make  your  sweetheart  glad. 
Now,  who  may  she  be?"   "M}'  mother,  sir; 
I  want  you  to  send  the  half  to  her." 
"And  the  rest?"  Jack  blushed  and  hung  his 

head; 
"I'll  buy  some  schoolin'  with  that,"  he  said. 

Decatur  laughed;  then  in  graver  mood: 
"The  first  is  the  better,  but  both  are  good. 
Your  mother  shall  never  know  want  while  I 
Have  a  ship  to  sail,  or  a  flag  to  fly; 
And  schooling  you  '11  have  till  all  is  blue, 
But  little  the  lubbers  can  teach  to  you." 

Midshipman  Creamer's  story  is  told  — 
They  did  such  things  in  the  days  of  old, 
When  faith  and  courage  won  sure  reward, 
And  the  quarter-deck  was  not  triply  barred, 
To  the  forecastle  hero;  for  men  were  men, 
And  the  Nation  was  close  to  its  Maker  then. 
JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

Encouraged  by  these  successes.  Congress,  on 
January  2,  1813.  appropriated  $2,500,000  to  build 
four  74-gun  ships  and  six  44-gun  ships.  England 
also  took  them  to  heart,  and  toward  the  end  of 
the  month  the  entire  British  fleet  was  sent  to 
blockade  the  Atlantic  coast. 


296 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


YANKEE  THUNDERS 

[1813] 

BRITANNIA  s  gallant  streamers 

Float  proudly  o'er  the  tide, 
And  fairly  wave  Columbia's  stripes, 

In  battle  side  by  side. 
And  ne'er  did  bolder  seamen  meet. 

Where  ocean's  surges  pour; 
O'er  the  tide  now  they  ride. 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast. 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

When  Yankee  meets  the  Briton, 

Whose  blood  congenial  flows, 
By  Heav'n  created  to  be  friends, 

By  fortune  rendered  foes; 
Hard  then  must  be  the  battle  fray, 

Ere  well  the  fight  is  o'er; 
Now  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 
While  her  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Still,  still,  for  noble  England 

Bold  D' Acres'  streamers  fly; 
And  for  Columbia,  gallant  Hull's 

As  proudly  and  as  high; 
Now  louder  rings  the  battle  din, 

And  thick  the  volumes  pour; 
Still  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Why  lulls  Britannia's  thunder, 

That  waked  the  wat'ry  war? 
Why  stays  the  gallant  Guerriere, 

Whose  streamers  waved  so  fair? 
That  streamer  drinks  the  ocean  wave, 

That  warrior's  fight  is  o'er ! 
Still  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  belPwing  thunders  roar. 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Hark !   't  is  the  Briton's  lee  gun ! 

Ne'er  bolder  warrior  kneeled! 
And  ne'er  to  gallant  mariners 

Did  braver  seamen  yield. 
Proud  be  the  sires,  whose  hardy  boys 

Then  fell  to  fight  no  more: 


With  the  brave,  mid  the  wave; 

When  the  cannon's  thunders  roar, 
Their  spirits  then  shall  trim  the  blast, 

And  swell  the  thunder's  roar. 

Vain  were  the  cheers  of  Britons, 

Their  hearts  did  vainly  swell, 
Where  virtue,  skill,  and  bravery 

With  gallant  Morris  fell. 
That  heart  so  well  in  battle  tried, 

Along  the  Moorish  shore, 
And  again  o'er  the  main, 

When  Columbia's  thunders  roar, 
Shall  prove  its  Yankee  spirit  true, 

When  Columbia's  thunders  roar. 

Hence  be  our  floating  bulwark 

Those  oaks  our  mountains  yield; 
'T  is  mighty  Heaven's  plain  decree  — 

Then  take  the  wat'ry  field! 
To  ocean's  farthest  barrier  then 

Your  whit'ning  sail  shall  pour; 
Safe  they'll  ride  o'er  the  tide, 

While  Columbia's  thunders  roar, 
While  her  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  her  Yankee  thunders  roar. 


On  March  11 ,  1813,  the  little  privateer  schooner, 
General  Armstrong,  Captain  Guy  R.  Champlin, 
was  cruising  off  Surinam  River,  when  she  sighted 
a  sail,  and  on  investigation  found  it  to  be  a  large 
vessel,  apparently  a  British  privateer.  Champlin 
bore  down  and  endeavored  to  board.  The  stranger 
kept  off,  and,  suddenly  raising  her  port  covars, 
disclosed  herself  as  a  British  44-gun  frigate.  For 
forty-five  minutes  the  Americans  stood  to  their 
guns  and  endeavored  to  dismast  the  enemy,  then 
gradually  drew  away  and  escaped. 


THE  GENERAL   ARMSTRONG 

[March  11,  1813) 

COME,  all  you  sons  of  Liberty,  that  to  the  seas 

belong, 
It's  worth  your  attention  to   listen  to  my 

song; 
The  history  of  a  privateer  I  will  detail  in 

full, 
That  fought  a  "six-and-thirty"  belonging  to 

John  Bull. 

The  General  Armstrong  she  is  called,  and 

sailed  from  New  York, 
With  all  our  hearts  undaunted,  once  more  to 

try  our  luck; 


THE   GENERAL   ARMSTRONG 


297 


She  was  a  noble  vessel,  a  privateer  of  fame : 
She  had  a  brave  commander,  George  Cham- 
plin  was  his  name. 

We  stood  unto  the  eastward,  all  with  a  favor 
ing  gale, 

In  longitude  of  fifty  we  spied  a  lofty  sail : 

Our  mainsail  being  lower'd  and  foresail  to 
repair, 

Our  squaresail  being  set,  my  boys,  the  wind  it 
proved  fair. 

We  very  soon  perceived  the  lofty  sail  to  be 
Bearing  down  upon  us  while  we  lay  under  her 

lee; 
All  hands  we  call'd,  and  sail  did  make,  then 

spliced  the  main-brace, 
Night  coming  on,  we  sail'd  so  fast,  she  soon 

gave  up  the  chase. 

Then  to   Barbadoes  we  were  bound,   our 

course  so  well  did  steer; 
We  cruised  there  for  several  days,  and  nothing 

did  appear. 
'T  was  on  the  llth  of  March,  to  windward  of 

Surinam, 
We  spied  a  lofty  ship,  my  boys,  at  anchor  near 

the  land; 
All  hands  we  call'd   to  quarters,  and  down 

upon  her  bore, 
Thinking  't  was   some  merchant-ship  then 

lying  near  the  shore. 

She  quickly  weighed  anchor  and  from  us  did 

steer, 
And  setting  her  top-gallant  sail  as  if  she  did  us 

fear, 
But  soon  we  were  alongside  of  her,  and  gave 

her  a  gun. 
Determined  to  fight,  my  boys,  and  not  from 

her  to  run. 

We  hoisted  up  the  bloody  flag  and  down  upon 

her  bore, 
If  she  did  not  strike,  my  boys,  no  quarters  we 

would  show  her; 
Each  man  a  brace  of  pistols,  a  boarding-pike 

and  sword. 
We'll  give  her  a  broadside,  my  boys,  before  we 

do  her  board. 

All  hands  at  their  quarters  lay,  until  we  came 

alongside, 
And  gave  them  three  hearty  cheers,  their 

British  courage  tried. 


The  lower  ports  she  had  shut  in,  the  Arm 
strong  to  decoy, 

And  quickly  she  her  ports  did  show,  to  daunt 
each  Yankee  boy. 

The  first  broadside  we  gave  them  true,  their 
colors  shot  away, 

Their  topsail,  haulyards,  mizen  rigging,  main 
and  mizen  stay, 

Two  ports  we  did  knock  into  one,  his  star 
board  quarter  tore, 

They  overboard  their  wounded  flung,  while 
cannons  loud  did  roar. 

She  wore  directly  round,  my  boys,  and  piped 

all  hands  on  deck, 
For  fear  that  we  would  board  and  serve  a 

Yankee  trick; 
To  board  a  six-and-thirty  it  was  in  vain  to 

try, 
While  the  grape,  round,  and  langrage,  like 

hailstones  they  did  fly. 

Brave  Champlin  on  the  quarter-deck  so  nobly 

gave  command: 
"Fight  on,  my  brave  Americans,  dismast  her 

if  you  can." 
The  round,  grape,  and  star-shot  so  well  did 

play, 
A    musket-ball    from    the    maintop    brave 

Champlin  low  did  lay. 

His  wound  was  quickly  dress'd,  while  he  in 

his  cabin  lay; 
The  doctor,  while  attending,  these  words  he 

heard  him  say: 
"Our  Yankee  flag  shall  flourish,"  our  noble 

captain  cried, 
"Before  that  we  do  strike,  my  boys,  we'll 

sink  alongside." 

She  was  a  six-and-thirty,  and  mounted  forty- 
two, 

We  fought  her  four  glasses,  what  more  then 
could  we  do; 

Till  six  brave  seamen  we  had  kill'd,  which 
grieved  us  full  sore. 

And  thirteen  more  wounded  lay  bleeding  in 
their  gore. 

Our  foremast  being  wounded,  and  bowsprit 

likewise ; 
Our  lower  rigging  fore  and  aft,  and  headstay 

beside ; 


298 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Our  haulyards,  braces,  bowling,  and  foretop 

sheet  also, 
We  found  we  could  not  fight  her,  boys,  so 

from  her  we  did  go. 

Our  foremast  proving  dangerous,  we  could 

not  carry  sail, 
Although  we  had  it  fish'd  and  welded  with  a 

chain ; 
It  grieved  us  to  the  heart  to  put  up  with  such 

abuse, 
For  this  damn'd  English  frigate  had  surely 

spoil'd  our  cruise. 

Here's  success  attend  brave  Champlin,  his 

officers  and  men, 
That  fought  with  courage  keen,  my  boys,  our 

lives  to  defend; 
We  fought  with  much  superior  force,  what 

could  we  do  more  ? 
Then  haul'd  our  wind  and  stood  again  for 

Freedom's  happy  shore. 

On  the  land,  the  year  opened  badly  with  the 
disastrous  defeat  of  an  American  column,  under 
General  Winchester,  at  Raisin  River,  Michigan; 
but  on  April  27  General  Pike,  at  the  head  of 
fifteen  hundred  men,  stormed  and  captured  the 
British  fort  at  York,  now  Toronto. 

CAPTURE   OF   LITTLE   YORK 

[April  27,  1813) 

WHEN  Britain,  with  envy  and  malice  in 
flamed, 

Dared  dispute  the  dear  rights  of  Colum 
bia's  bless'd  union, 
We  thought  of  the  time  when  our  freedom 

we  claim'd, 
And  fought  'gainst  oppression  with  fullest 

communion. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean  have  been  forced 

to  yield, 

And  fresh  laurels  we  now  gather  up  in 
the  field. 

Freedom's  flag  on  the  wilds  of  the  west  is 

unfurl'd, 
And  our  foes  seem  to  find  their  resistance 

delusion ; 
For  our  eagle  her  arrows  amongst  them  has 

hurl'd 
And  their  ranks  of  bold  veterans  fill'd  with 

confusion. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 


On  the  lakes  of  the  west,   full  of  national 

pride, 
See  our  brave  little  fleet  most  triumphantly 

riding ! 
And  behold  the  brave  tars  on  the  fresh-water 

tide, 
In  a  noble  commander,  brave  Chauncey, 

confiding. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Their  deeds  of  proud  valor  shall  long  stand 

enroll'd 
On  the  bright  shining  page  of  our  national 

glory : 
And  oft,  in  the  deep  winter's  night,  shall  be 

told 

The  exploits  of  the  tars  of  American  story. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Nor  less  shall  the  soldiers  come  in  for  their 

praise, 

Who  engaged  to  accomplish  the  great  ex 
pedition  ; 
And  a  monument  Fame  shall  for  them  cheerily 

raise, 

And  their  deeds  shall  in  history  find  repeti 
tion. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Let  Britons  still  boast  of  their  prowess  and 

pluck ; 
We  care  not  a  straw  for  their  muskets  and 

cannon. 
In  the  field  we  will  beat  them,  unless  they've 

the  luck 
To  run  from  their  foes  like  Tenedos  and 

Shannon. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Our  sweet  little  bull-dogs,  they  thunder'd 

away, 
And  our  sailors  and  soldiers  the  foe  still 

kept  mauling. 
Till  they  grew  very  sick  of  such  tight  Yankee 

play, 
And  poor  Sheaffe  and  his  troops  then  ran 

away  bawling. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

But  the  rascals  on  malice  quite  fully  were  bent : 
And  as  from  the  fort  they  were  cowardly 

going, 

In  pursuance  to  what  was  at  first  their  intent, 
The  magazine  they  had   resolved  on  up- 
blowing. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 


THE   DEATH   OF   GENERAL   PIKE 


299 


Two  hundred  brave  soldiers  there  met  with 

their  death; 
And  while  for  their  country  they  nobly  were 

dying, 
Full  fifty  bold   Britons  at  once    lost    their 

breath, 

And  with  them  in  the  air  were  their  car 
casses  flying. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

The  brave  General  Pike  there  met  with  his 

end; 
But  his  virtues  his  country  forever  will 

cherish : 
And  while  o'er  his  grave  fair  Freedom  shall 

bend, 
She  will  swear  that  his  memory  never  shall 

perish. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Let  the  minions  of  Britain  swarm  over  our 

coast; 

Columbians,    all   cowardly   conduct   dis 
daining, 
We'll  teach  the  invaders  how  vain  is  their 

boast, 
And  contend,  whilst  a  drop  of  their  blood 

is  remaining. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Then,    freemen,    arise,    and   gird   on   your 

swords, 
And  declare,  while  you  still  have  the  means 

of  resistance. 
That  you  ne'er  will  give  up  for  the  threatening 

of  words, 
Nor  of  arms,  those  dear  rights  which  you 

prize  as  existence. 
Our  foes  on  the  ocean,  etc. 

Forty  of  the  enemy  and  more  than  two  hundred 
Americans  were  killed  or  wounded  by  the  explo 
sion  of  a  magazine,  just  as  the  place  surrendered. 
General  Pike  was  mortally  wounded,  and  died 
with  his  head  on  the  British  flag  which  had  been 
brought  to  him. 

THE   DEATH   OF   GENERAL  PIKE 

[April  27,  1813] 

'T  WAS  on  the  glorious  day 
When  our  valiant  triple  band 

Drove  the  British  troops  away 
From  their  strong  and  chosen  stand ; 


When  the  city  York  was  taken, 
And  the  Bloody  Cross  hauled  down 
From  the  walls  of  the  town 

Its  defenders  had  forsaken. 

The  gallant  Pike  had  moved 

A  hurt  foe  to  a  spot 
A  little  more  removed 

From  the  death-shower  of  the  shot; 
And  he  himself  was  seated 

On  the  fragment  of  an  oak, 

And  to  a  captive  spoke, 
Of  the  troops  he  had  defeated. 

He  was  seated  in  a  place. 
Not  to  shun  the  leaden  rain 

He  had  been  the  first  to  face, 
And  now  burned  to  brave  again, 

But  had  chosen  that  position 
Till  the  officer's  return 
The  truth  who'd  gone  to  learn 

Of  the  garrison's  condition. 

When  suddenly  the  ground 

With  a  dread  convulsion  shook, 
And  arose  a  frightful  sound, 

And  the  sun  was  hid  in  smoke; 
And  huge  stones  and  rafters,  driven 

Athwart  the  heavy  rack, 

Fell,  fatal  on  their  track 
As  the  thunderbolt  of  Heaven. 

Then  two  hundred  men  and  more, 
Of  our  bravest  and  our  best, 

Lay  all  ghastly  in  their  gore. 
And  the  hero  with  the  rest. 

On  their  folded  arms  they  laid  him; 
But  he  raised  his  dying  breath: 
"On,  men,  avenge  the  death 

Of  your  general !"  They  obeyed  him. 

They  obeyed.  Three  cheers  they  gave, 
Closed  their  scattered  ranks,  and  on. 

Though  their  leader  found  a  grave, 
Yet  the  hostile  town  was  won. 

To  a  vessel  straight  they  bore  him 
Of  the  gallant  Chauncey's  fleet, 
And,  the  conquest  complete. 

Spread  the  British  flag  before  him. 

O'er  his  eyes  the  long,  last  night 

Was  already  falling  fast; 
But  came  back  again  the  light 

For  a  moment;  't  was  the  last. 


300 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


With  a  victor's  joy  they  fired, 
'Neath  his  head  by  signs  he  bade 
The  trophy  should  be  laid : 

And,  thus  pillowed,  Pike  expired. 

LAUGHTON  OSBORN. 


General  William  Henry  Harrison,  meanwhile, 
at  the  head  of  the  western  army,  was  besieged  in 
Fort  Meigs,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Maumee,  by  a 
large  force  of  Indians  and  British.  On  May  1  the 
British  made  a  determined  assault,  but  were 
beaten  off;  a  few  days  later,  after  a  desperate 
battle  with  a  relief  column,  the  British  raised  the 
siege  and  retreated  to  Canada. 


OLD   FORT   MEIGS 

[April  28-May  9.  1813] 

OH  !  lonely  is  our  old  preen  fort, 

Where  oft,  in  days  of  old, 
Our  gallant  soldiers  bravely  fought 

'Gainst  savage  allies  bold; 
But  with  the  change  of  years  have 

That  unrelenting  foe, 
Since  we  fought  here  with  Harrison 

A  long  time  ago. 


It  seems  but  yesterday  I  heard, 

From  yonder  thicket  nigh. 
The  unerring  rifle's  sharp  report, 

The  Indian's  startling  cry. 
Yon  brooklet  flowing  at  our  feet, 

With  crimson  gore  did  flow, 
When  we  fought  here  with  Harrison, 

A  long  time  ago. 

The  river  rolls  between  its  banks, 

As  when  of  old  we  came, 
Each  grassy  path,  each  shady  nook, 

Seems  to  me  still  the  same; 
But  we  are  scatter'd  now,  whose  faith 

Pledged  here,  through  weal  or  woe, 
With  Harrison  our  soil  to  guard, 

A  long  time  ago. 

But  many  a  soldier's  lip  is  mute, 

And  clouded  many  a  brow. 
And  hearts  that  beat  for  honor  then, 

Have  ceased  their  throbbing  now. 
We  ne'er  shall  meet  again  in  life 

As  then  we  met,  I  trow, 
When  we  fought  here  with  Harrison, 

A  long  time  ago. 


The  remarkable  list  of  victories  on  the  ocean 
was  soon  to  be  broken,  for  on  June  1,  1813,  the 
36-gun  frigate,  Chesapeake,  was  defeated  and  cap 
tured  by  the  British  38-gun  frigate,  Shannon. 


THE  SHANNON    AND  THE  CHESA 
PEAKE 

[June  1.  1813] 

THE  captain  of  the  Shannon  came  sailing 

up  the  bay, 
A  reeling  wind  flung  out  behind  his  pennons 

bright  and  gay; 
His  cannon  crashed  a  challenge;  the  smoke 

that  hid  the  sea 
Was  driven  hard  to  windward  and  drifted 

back  to  lee. 

The  captain  of  the  Shannon  sent  word  into 

the  town: 
Was  Lawrence  there,  and  would  he  dare  to 

sail  his  frigate  down 
And  meet  him  at  the  harbor's  mouth  and 

fight  him,  gun  to  gun, 
For  honor's  sake,  with  pride  at  stake,  until 

the  fight  was  won  ? 

Now,  long  the  gallant  Lawrence  had  scoured 

the  bitter  main; 
With  many  a  scar  and  wound  of  war  his  ship 

was  home  again ; 
His  crew,  relieved  from  service,  were  scattered 

far  and  wide, 
And  scarcely  one,  his  duty  done,  had  lingered 

by  his  side. 

But  to  refuse  the  challenge  ?  Could  he  outlive 
the  shame? 

Brave  men  and  true,  but  deadly  few,  he 
gathered  to  his  fame. 

Once  more  the  great  ship  Chesapeake  pre 
pared  her  for  the  fight,  — 

"I'll  bring  the  foe  to  town  in  tow,"  he  said, 
"  before  to-night ! " 

High  on  the  hills  of  Hingham  that  overlooked 

the  shore, 
To  watch  the  fray  and  hope  and  pray,  for 

they  could  do  no  more, 
The  children  of  the  country  watched  the 

children  of  the  sea 
When  the  smoke  drove  hard  to  windward  and 

drifted  back  to  lee. 


CHESAPEAKE  AND   SHANNON 


301 


"How  can  he  fight,"  they  whispered,  "with 
only  half  a  crew, 

Though  they  be  rare  to  do  and  dare,  yet  what 
can  brave  men  do  ?  " 

But  when  the  Chesapeake  came  down,  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  on  high, 

Stilled  was  each  fear,  and  cheer  on  cheer  re 
sounded  to  the  sky. 

The  Captain  of  the  Shannon,  he  swore  both 

long  and  loud: 
"This  victory,  where'er  it  be,  shall  make  two 

nations  proud! 
Now  onward  to  this  victory  or  downward  to 

defeat ! 
A  sailor's  life  is  sweet  with  strife,  a  sailor's 

death  as  sweet." 

And  as  when  lightnings  rend  the  sky  and 
gloomy  thunders  roar, 

And  crashing  surge  plays  devil's  dirge  upon 
the  stricken  shore, 

With  thunder  and  with  sheets  of  flame  the 
two  ships  rang  with  shot. 

And  every  gun  burst  forth  a  sun  of  iron  crim 
son-hot. 

And  twice  they  lashed  together  and  twice  they 

tore  apart. 
And  iron  balls  burst  wooden  walls  and  pierced 

each  oaken  heart. 
Still  from  the  hills  of  Hingham  men  watched 

with  hopes  and  fears, 
While  all  the  bay  was  torn  that  day  with  shot 

that  rained  like  tears. 

The  tall  masts  of  the  Chesapeake  went  groan 
ing  by  the  board; 

The  Shannon's  spars  were  weak  with  scars 
when  Broke  cast  down  his  sword; 

"Now  woe,"  he  cried,  "to  England,  and 
shame  and  woe  to  me ! " 

The  smoke  drove  hard  to  windward  and 
drifted  back  to  lee. 

"Give  them  one  breaking  broadside  more," 

he  cried,  "before  we  strike!" 
But  one  grim  ball  that  ruined  all  for  hope  and 

home  alike 
Laid  Lawrence  low  in  glory,  yet  from  his 

pallid  lip 
Rang  to  the  land  his  last  command:  "Boys, 

don't  give  up  the  ship!" 


The  wounded  wept  like  women  when  they 

hauled  her  ensign  down. 
Men's  cheeks  were  pale  as  with  the  tale  from 

Hingham  to  the  town 
They  hurried  in  swift  silence,  while  toward 

the  eastern  night 

The  victor  bore  away  from  shore  and  vanished 
out  of  sight. 

Hail  to  the  great  ship  Chesapeake!  Hail  to 
the  hero  brave 

Who  fought  her  fast,  and  loved  her  last,  and 
shared  her  sudden  grave! 

And  glory  be  to  those  that  died  for  all  eter 
nity; 

They  lie  apart  at  the  mother-heart  of  God's 
eternal  sea. 

THOMAS  TRACY  BOUVE. 


A  British  versifier  celebrated  the  victory  by 
composing  a  ballad  in  imitation  of  the  famous  one 
about  the  Constitution  and  Guerriere. 


CHESAPEAKE  AND   SHANNON 

[June  1,  1813] 

THE  Chesapeake  so  bold 
Out  of  Boston,  I've  been  told, 
Came  to  take  a  British  Frigate 

Neat  and  handy  O! 
While  the  people  of  the  port 
Flocked  out  to  see  the  sport, 
With  their  music  playing 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  O! 

Now  the  British  Frigate's  name 
Which  for  the  purpose  came 
Of  cooling  Yankee  courage 

Neat  and  handy  O ! 
Was  the  Shannon,  Captain  Broke, 
Whose  crew  were  heart  of  oak, 
And  for  the  fighting  were  confessed 

To  be  the  dandy  O! 

The  engagement  scarce  begun 
Ere  they  flinched  from  their  guns. 
Which  at  first  they  thought  of  working 

Neat  and  handy  O ! 
The  bold  Broke  he  waved  his  sword, 
Crying,  "Now,  my  lads,  on  board, 
And  we'll  stop  their  playing 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  O!" 


302 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


They  no  sooner  heard  the  word 
Than  they  quickly  rushed  aboard 
And  hauled  down  the  Yankee  ensign 

Neat  and  handy  O ! 
Notwithstanding  all  their  brag, 
Now  the  glorious  British  flag 
At  the  Yankee's  mizzen-peak 

Was  quite  the  dandy  O! 

Successful  Broke  to  you, 

And  your  officers  and  crew, 

Who  on  board  the  Shannon  frigate 

Fought  so  handy  O! 
And  may  it  ever  prove 
That  in  fighting  as  in  love 

The  true  British  tar  is  the  dandy  O! 


James  Lawrence,  commander  of  the  Chesapeake, 
had  been  fatally  wounded  early  in  the  action. 
Until  the  last,  he  kept  crying  from  the  cockpit, 
"Keep  the  guns  goingl  Fight  her  till  she  strikes 
or  sinks!  "  His  last  words  were  the  famous,  "  Don't 
give  up  the  ship!" 


DEFEAT  AND   VICTORY 

[June  1,  1813] 

THROUGH  the  clangor  of  the  cannon, 

Through  the  combat's  wreck  and  reek, 
Answer  to  th'  o'ermastering  Shannon 

Thunders  from  the  Chesapeake: 
Gallant  Lawrence,  wounded,  dying, 
Speaks  with  still  unconquered  lip 

Ere  the  bitter  draught  he  drinks: 
Keep  the  Flag  flying ! 

Fight  her  till  she  strikes  or  sinks! 
Don't  give  up  the  ship  1 

Still  that  voice  is  sounding  o'er  us, 

So  bold  Perry  heard  it  call; 
Farragut  has  joined  its  chorus; 

Porter,  Dewey,  Wainwright  —  all 
Heard  the  voice  of  duty  crying; 

Deathless  word  from  dauntless  lip 
That  our  past  and  future  links: 
Keep  the  Flag  flying  ! 

Fight  her  till  she  strikes  or  sinks! 
Don't  give  up  the  ship  ! 

WALLACE  RICE. 


Another  action  which  resulted  very  differently 
was  that  between  the  American  16-gun  schooner, 
Enterprise,  and  the  British  14-gun  brig,  Boxer. 


The  ships  came  together  off  Monhegan  on  Sep 
tember  5,  1813,  and  after  a  fierce  fight  lasting  an 
hour,  the  Englishman  surrendered. 


ENTERPRISE   AND   BOXER 

[September  5,  1813] 

AGAIN  Columbia's  stripes,  unfurl'd, 
Have  testified  before  the  world, 

How  brave  are  those  who  wear  'em; 
The  foe  has  now  been  taught  again 
His  streamers  cannot  shade  the  main 
While  Yankees  live  to  share  'em. 
Huzza !  once  more  for  Yankee  skill ! 
The  brave  are  very  generous  still 
But  teach  the  foes  submission: 
Now  twice  three  times  his  flag  we've 

gain'd, 

And  more,  much  more  can  be  obtain'd 
Upon  the  same  condition. 

The  gallant  Enterprise  her  name, 
A  vessel  erst  of  little  fame, 

Had  sail'd  and  caught  the  foe,  sirs; 
'T  was  hers  the  glory  and  the  gain, 
To  meet  the  Boxer  on  the  main, 

And  bring  her  home  in  tow,  sirs. 

Huzza!  once  more  for  Yankee  skill,  etc. 

Fierce  lightnings  gleam  and  thunders  roar, 
While  round  and  grape  in  torrents  pour, 

And  echo  through  the  skies,  sirs; 
When  minutes  forty-five  had  flown. 
Behold  the  Briton's  colors  down !  — 

She's  yielded  up  a  prize,  sirs. 
Huzza!  once  more  for  Yankee  skill,  etc. 

The  victory  gain'd,  we  count  the  cost, 
We  mourn,  indeed,  a  hero  lost ! 

Who  nobly  fell,  we  know,  sirs ; 
But  Burrows,  we  with  Lawrence  find, 
Has  left  a  living  name  behind, 

Much  honor'd  by  the  foe,  sirs. 

Huzza!  once  more  for  Yankee  skill,  etc. 

And  while  we  notice  deeds  of  fame, 
In  which  the  gallant  honors  claim; 

As  heroes  of  our  story, 
The  name  of  Blyth  a  meed  demands. 
Whose  tomb  is  deck'd  by  freemen's  hands, 

Who  well  deserve  the  glory. 
,  Huzza !  once  more  for  Yankee  skill,  etc, 


THE  BATTLE    OF   ERIE 


303 


Then,  while  we  fill  the  sparkling  glass, 
And  cause  it  cheerly  round  to  pass, 

In  social  hours  assembled; 
Be  Hull,  Decatur,  Bainbridge,  Jones, 
Lawrence  and  Burrows  —  Victory's  sons, 

With  gratitude  remember'd. 
Huzza !  once  more  for  Yankee  skill,  etc. 


This  little  victory  was  soon  overshadowed  by 
a  far  more  brilliant  and  important  one  on  Lake 
Erie,  where,  on  September  10,  1813,  Oliver  Haz 
ard  Perry,  in  command  of  a  hastily  constructed 
fleet  of  nine  ships,  defeated  and  captured  a  British 
squadron  of  superior  strength. 


PERRY'S   VICTORY 

[September  10,  1813] 

WE  sailed  to  and  fro  in  Erie's  broad  lake, 
To  find  British  bullies  or  get  into  their  wake. 
When  we  hoisted  our  canvas  with  true  Yan 
kee  speed, 

And  the  brave  Captain  Perry  our  squadron 
did  lead. 

We  sailed  through  the  lake,  boys,  in  search 

of  the  foe, 

In  the  cause  of  Columbia  our  brav'ry  to  show, 
To  be  equal  in  combat  was  all  our  delight, 
As  we  wished  the  proud  Britons  to  know  we 

could  fight. 

And  whether  like  Yeo,  boys,  they'd  taken 

affright, 
We  could  see  not,  nor  find  them  by  day  or  by 

night ; 

So  cruising  we  went  in  a  glorious  cause, 
In  defence  of  our  rights,  our  freedom,  and 

laws. 

At  length  to  our  liking,  six  sails  hove  in  view, 
Huzzah !  says  brave  Perry,  huzzah !  says  his 

crew, 
And  then  for  the  chase,  boys,  with  our  brave 

little  crew, 
We  fell  in  with  the  bullies  and  gave  them 

"  burgoo." 

Though  the  force  was  unequal,  determined  to 
fight, 

We  brought  them  to  action  before  it  was  night ; 

WTe  let  loose  our  thunder,  our  bullets  did  fly, 

"Now  give  them  your  shot,  boys,"  our  com 
mander  did  cry. 


We  gave  them  a  broadside,  our  cannon  to 

try, 
"W7ell  done,"  says  brave  Perry,  "for  quarter 

they'll  cry, 
Shot  well  home,  my  brave  boys,  they  shortly 

shall  see. 
That  quite  brave  as  they  are,  still  braver  are 

we." 

Then  we  drew  up  our  squadron,  each  man 

full  of  fight, 
And   put  the   proud   Britons  in  a  terrible 

plight, 
The   brave   Perry's   movements   will   prove 

fully  as  bold, 
As  the  fam'd  Admiral  Nelson's  prowess  of 

old. 

The  conflict  was  sharp,  boys,  each  man  to  his 

gun, 
For  our  country,  her  glory,  the  vict'ry  was 

won, 
So  six  sail  (the  whole  fleet)  was  our  fortune 

to  take, 
Here's  a  health  to  brave  Perry,  who  governs 

the  Lake. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   ERIE 

[September  10,  1813] 

AVAST,  honest  Jack!  now,  before  you  get 
mellow, 

Come  tip  us  that  stave  just,  my  hearty  old 
fellow, 

'Bout  the  young  commodore,  and  his  fresh 
water  crew, 

Who  keelhaul'd  the  Britons,  and  captured  a 
few. 

"  'T  was  just  at  sunrise,  and  a  glorious  day, 
Our   squadron   at   anchor   snug   in   Put-in- 

Bay, 
When  we  saw  the  bold  Britons,  and  cleared 

for  a  bout. 
Instead  of  put  in,  by  the  Lord  we  put  out. 

"  Up  went  union-jack,  never  up  there  before, 
'Don't  give  up  the  ship'  was  the  motto  it 

bore; 
And  as  soon  as  that  motto  our  gallant  lads 

saw, 
They  thought  of  their  Lawrence,  and  shouted 

huzza! 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"  Oh !  then  it  would  have  raised  your  hat  three 

inches  higher, 
To  see  how  we  dash'd  in  among  them  like 

fire! 
The  Lawrence  went  first,  and  the  rest  as  they 

could, 
And  a  long  time  the  brunt  of  the  action  she 

stood. 

-"  'T  was  peppering  work,  —  fire,  fury,  and 

smoke, 
•And  groans  that  from  wounded  lads,  spite  of 

'em,  broke. 
The  water  grew  red  round  our  ship  as  she 

lay, 
Though  't  was  never  before  so  till  that  bloody 

day. 

"They  fell  all  around  me  like  spars  in  a  gale; 
The  shot  made  a  sieve  of  each  rag  of  a  sail ; 
And  out  of  our  crew  scarce  a  dozen  remain 'd; 
But  these  gallant  tars  still  the  battle  main- 
tain'd. 

;"  'T  was  then  our  commander  —  God  bless 
his  young  heart  — 

Thought  it  best  from  his  well-peppered  ship 
to  depart, 

And  bring  up  the  rest  who  were  tugging  be 
hind  — 

For  why  —  they  were  sadly  in  want  of  a  wind. 

"So  to  Yarnall  he  gave  the  command  of  his 

ship, 
And  set  out,  like  a  lark,  on  this  desperate 

trip, 
In  a  small  open  yawl,  right   through  their 

whole  fleet, 
Who  with  many  a  broadside  our  cockboat 

did  greet. 

"I  steer'd  her  and  damme  if  every  inch 
Of  these  timbers  of  mine  at  each  crack  did  n't 

flinch : 
But  our  tight   little  commodore,  cool  and 

serene, 
To  stir  ne'er  a  muscle  by  any  was  seen. 

"Whole  volleys  of  muskets  were  levell'd  at 

him, 

But  the  devil  a  one  ever  grazed  e'en  a  limb, 
Though  he  stood  up  aloft  in  the  stern  of  the 

boat. 
Till  the  crew  pull'd  him  down  by  the  skirt  of 

his  coat. 


"At  last,  through  Heaven's  mercy,  we  reached 

t'other  ship, 
And  the  wind  springing  up,  we  gave  her  the 

whip, 
And  run  down  their  line,  boys,  through  thick 

and  through  thin, 
And  bother'd  their  crews  with  a  horrible  din. 

"Then  starboard  and  larboard,  and  this  way 

and  that, 
We  bang'd  them  and  raked  them,  and  laid 

their  masts  flat. 
Till,  one  after  t'other,  they  haul'd  down  their 

flag, 
And  an  end,  for  that  time,  put  to  Johnny 

Bull's  brag. 

"  The  Detroit,   and  Queen   Charlotte,   and 

Lady  Prevost, 

Not  able  to  fight  or  run,  gave  up  the  ghost: 
And  not  one  of  them  all  from  our  grapplings 

got  free, 
Though  we'd  fifty-four  guns,  and  they  just 

sixty-three. 

"  Smite  my  limbs !  but  they  all  got  their  bellies 

full  then, 
And  found  what  it  was,  boys,  to  buckle  with 

men, 
Who  fight,  or,  what's  just  the  same,  think 

that  they  fight 
For  their  country's  free  trade  and  their  own 

native  right. 

"Now  give  us  a  bumper  to  Elliott  and  those 
Who  came  up,  in  good  time,  to  belabor  our  foes : 
To  our  fresh-water  sailors  we'll  toss  off  one 

more, 

And  a  dozen,  at  least,  to  our  young  com 
modore. 

"And  though  Britons  may  brag  of  their  ruling 

the  ocean, 
And  that  sort  of  thing,  by  the  Lord,  I  've  a 

notion, 
I  '11  bet  all  I  'm  worth  —  who  takes  it  —  who 

takes? 
Though  they're  lords  of  the  sea,  we'll  be 

lords  of  the  lakes." 

Immediately  on  receiving  the  surrender.  Perry 
wrote  with  a  pencil  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter, 
using  his  cap  for  a  desk,  hia  famous  message,  "We 
have  met  the  enemy  and  they  are  ours  —  two 
ships,  two  brigs,  one  schooner,  and  one  sloop,"  and 
dispatched  it  to  General  Harrison. 


THE   FALL  OF  TECUMSEH 


305 


PERRY'S  VICTORY  — A  SONG 

[September  10,  1813] 

COLUMBIA,   appear !  —  To    thy    mountains 

ascend, 
And  pour  thy  bold  hymn  to  the  winds  and 

the  woods; 
Columbia,  appear !  —  O'er  thy  tempest-harp 

bend, 

And  far  to  the  nations  its  trumpet-song  send, — 
Let  thy  cliff-echoes  wake,  with  their  sun- 

nourish'd  broods, 

And  chant  to  the  desert  —  the  skies  —  and 
the  floods, 

And  bid  them  remember, 
The  Tenth  of  September, 
When  our  Eagle  came  down  from  her  home 

in  the  sky  — 

And  the  souls  of  our  heroes  were  marshall'd 
on  high. 

Columbia,  ascend !  —  Let  thy  warriors  be 
hold 
Their  flag  like  a  firmament  bend  o'er  thy 

head. 
The  wide  rainbow-flag  with  its  star-clustered 

fold! 
Let  the  knell  of  dark  Battle  beneath  it  be 

tolled. 
While  the  anthem  of  Peace  shall  be  pealed 

for  the  dead. 

And  the  rude  waters  heave,  on  whose  bosom 
they  bled: 

Oh,  they  will  remember, 
The  Tenth  of  September, 
When  their  souls  were  let  loose  in  a  tempest 

of  flame. 

And  wide  Erie  shook  at  the  trumpet  of 
Fame. 

Columbia,  appear!  —  Let  thy  cloud  minstrels 

wake, 

As  they  march  on  the  storm,  all  the  gran 
deur  of  song, 

Till  the  far  mountain  reel  —  and  the  billow- 
less  lake 
Shall  be  mantled  in  froth,  and  its  Monarch 

shall  quake 
On  his  green  oozy  throne,  as  their  harping 

comes  strong, 

With  the  chime  of  the  winds  as  they're 
bursting  along. 

For  he  will  remember 
The  Tenth  of  September, 


When  he  saw  his  dominions  all  covered  with 

foam, 
And  heard  the   loud  war   in   its   echoless 

home. 

Columbia,    appear !  —  Be    thine    olive    dis 
played. 
O  cheer  with  thy  smile,  all  the  land  and  the 

tide! 
Be  the  anthem  we  hear  not  the  song  that  was 

made. 
When  the  victims  of  slaughter  stood  forth, 

all  arrayed 
In  blood-dripping  garments  —  and  shouted 

—  and  died. 

Let  the  hymning  of  peace  o'er  the  blue 
heavens  ride; 

O  let  us  remember 
The  Tenth  of  September, 
When  the  dark  waves  of  Erie  were  bright' 

ened  to-day, 

And  the  flames  of  the  Battle  were  quenched 
in  the  spray. 


Harrison,  at  the  head  of  his  army,  started  in 
hot  pursuit  of  the  British  and  Indians,  who  had 
been  compelled  to  evacuate  Detroit,  and  on  Octo 
ber  5  overtook  them  on  the  bank  of  the  Thames, 
and  routed  them  with  great  loss,  the  Indian  chief 
Tecumseh  being  among  the  slain. 


THE  FALL  OF  TECUMSEH 

[October  5,  1813] 

WHAT  heavy-hoofed  coursers  the  wilderness 

roam, 

To  the  war-blast  indignantly  tramping? 
Their  mouths  are  all  white,  as  if  frosted  with 

foam, 
The  steel  bit  impatiently  champing. 

'T  is  the  hand  of  the  mighty  that  grasps  the 

rein, 

Conducting  the  free  and  the  fearless. 
Ah!   see  them  rush  forward,  with  wild  dis 
dain. 
Through  paths  unfrequented  and  cheerless. 

From  the  mountains  had  echoed  the  charge 

of  death, 

Announcing  that  chivalrous  sally; 
The  savage  was  heard,   with   untrembling 

breath, 
To  pour  his  response  from  the  valley. 


306 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


One  moment,  and  nought  but  the  bugle  was 

heard, 

And  nought  but  the  war-whoop  given; 
The  next,  and  the  sky  seemed  convulsively 

stirred, 
As  if  by  the  lightning  riven. 

The  din  of  the  steed,  and  the  sabred  stroke, 
The  blood-stifled  gasp  of  the  dying, 

Were  screened  by  the  curling  sulphur-smoke, 
That  upward  went  wildly  flying. 

In  the  mist  that  hung  over  the  field  of  Mood, 
The  chief  of  the  horsemen  contended; 

His  rowels  were  bathed  in  purple  flood, 
That  fast  from  his  charger  descended. 

That  steed  reeled,  and  fell,  in  the  van  of  the 
fight, 

But  the  rider  repressed  not  his  daring, 
Till  met  by  a  savage,  whose  rank  and  might 

Were  shown  by  the  plume  he  was  wearing. 

The  moment  was  fearful;   a  mightier  foe 
Had  ne'er  swung  the  battle-axe  o'er  him; 

But  hope  nerved  his  arm  for  a  desperate  blow, 
And  Tecumseh  fell  prostrate  before  him. 

O  ne'er  may  the  nations  again  be  cursed 
With  conflict  so  dark  and  appalling !  — 

Foe  grappled  with  foe,  till  the  life-blood  burst 
From  their  agonized  bosoms  in  falling. 

Gloom,  silence,  and  solitude  rest  on  the  spot 
Where  the  hopes  of  the  red  man  perished ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  hero  who  fell  shall  not, 
By  the  virtuous,  cease  to  be  cherished. 

He  fought,  in  defence  of  his  kindred  and  king, 
With  a  spirit  most  loving  and  loyal. 

And  long  shall  the  Indian  warrior  sing 
The  deeds  of  Tecumseh  the  royal. 

The  lightning  of  intellect  flashed  from  his  eye, 

In  his  arm  slept  the  force  of  the  thunder, 
But  the  bolt  passed  the  suppliant  harmlessly 

by, 
And  left  the  freed  captive  to  wonder. 

Above,  near  the  path  of  the  pilgrim,  he  sleeps, 

With  a  rudely  built  tumulus  o'er  him ; 
And    the    bright-bosomed   Thames,    in    his 

majesty,  sweeps, 

By  the  mound  where  his  followers  bore 
him. 


The  British  took  care  to  maintain  as  strictly 
as  possible  the  blockade  of  the  American  coast, 
arid  the  coast  towns  were  kept  in  a  constant  state 
of  terror  lest  they  be  bombarded  and  burned. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  WALBACH  TOWER 

SCENE.  —  Fort  Constitution  on  the  Island  of 
Newcastle,  off  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  Colonel 
Walbach,  commanding.  Period,  the  fait  of 
1813. 

MORE  ill  at  ease  was  never  man  than  Wai- 
bach,  that  Lord's  day, 

When,  spent  with  speed,  a  trawler  cried,  "A 
war-ship  heads  this  way!" 

His  pipe,  half  filled,  to  shatters  flew;  he 
climbed  the  ridge  of  knolls; 

And,  turning  spy-glass  toward  the  east,  swept 
the  long  reach  of  Shoals. 

An  hour  he  watched:  behind  his  back  the 
Portsmouth  spires  waxed  red; 

Its  harbor  like  a  field  of  war,  a  braaen  shield 
o'erhead. 

Another  hour :  the  sundown  gun  the  Sabbath 

stillness  brake; 
When  loud  a  second  voice  hallooed,  "Two 

war-ships  hither  make!" 

Again  the  colonel  scanned  the  east,  where  soon 

white  gleams  arose: 
Behind  Star  Isle  they  first  appeared,  then 

flashed  o'er  Smuttynose. 

Fleet-wing'd    they    left    Duck    Isle    astern; 

when,  rounding  full  in  view, 
Lo !  in  the  face  of  Appledore  three  Britishers 

hove  to. 

"To  arms,  O  townsfolk!"  W'albach  cried. 

"Behold  these  black  hawk  three! 
Whether  they  pluck  old   Portsmouth   town 

rests  now  with  you  and  me. 

"The  guns  of  Kittery,  and  mine,  may  keep 

the  channel  clear, 
If  but  one  pintle-stone  be  raised  to  ward  me  in 

the  rear. 

"But  scarce  a  score  my  muster-roll;    the 

earthworks  lie  unmanned 
(Whereof  some  mouthing  spy,  no  doubt,  has 

made  them  understand); 


THE   BATTLE   OF  VALPARAISO 


307 


"And  if,  ere  dawn,  their  long-boat  keels  once 

kiss  the  nether  sands. 
My  every  port-hole's  mouth  is  stopped,  and 

we  be  in  their  hands!" 

Then  straightway  from  his  place  upspake  the 

parson  of  the  town: 
"  Let  us  beseech  Heaven's  blessing  first ! "  — 

and  all  the  folk  knelt  down. 

"O  God,  our  hands  are  few  and  faint;   our 

hope  rests  all  with  thee: 
Lend  us  thy  hand  in  this  sore  strait,  —  and 

thine  the  glory  be!" 

"Amen!  Amen!"  the  chorus  rose ;  "Amen!" 

the  pines  replied; 
And  through  the  churchyard's  rustling  grass 

an  "Amen"  softly  sighed. 

Astir  the  village  was  awhile,  with  hoof  and 
iron  clang; 

Then  all  grew  still,  save  where,  aloft,  a  hun 
dred  trowels  rang. 

None  supped,  they  say,  that  Lord's-day  eve; 

none  slept,  they  say,  that  night; 
But  all  night  long,  with  tireless  arms,  each 

toiled  as  best  he  might. 

Four  flax-haired  boys  of  Amazeen  the  flicker 
ing  torches  stay, 

Peopling  with  titan  shadow-groups  the  canopy 
of  gray; 

Grandsires,  with  frost  above  their  brows,  the 

steaming  mortar  mix; 
Dame  Tarlton's  apron,  crisp  at  dawn,  helps 

hod  the  yellow  bricks; 

While  pilot,   cooper,   mackerelman,   parson 

and  squire  as  well, 
Make  haste  to  plant  the  pintle-gun,  and  raise 

its  citadel. 

And  one  who  wrought  still  tells  the  tale,  that 

as  his  task  he  plied. 
An  unseen  fellow-form  he  felt  that  labored  at 

his  side; 

And  still  to  wondering  ears  relates,  that  as 

each  brick  was  squared, 
Lo!   unseen  trowels  clinked  response,  and  a 

new  course  prepared. 


O  night  of  nights !  The  blinking  dawn  beheld 
the  marvel  done. 

And  from  the  new  martello  boomed  the  echo 
ing  morning  gun. 

One  stormy  cloud  its  lip  upblew;  and  as  its 

thunder  rolled, 
Old  England  saw,  above  the  smoke,  New 

England's  flag  unfold. 

Then,  slowly  tacking  to  and  fro,  more  near 

the  cruisers  made, 
To  see  what  force  unheralded  had  flown  to 

Walbach's  aid. 

"God  be  our  stay,"  the  parson  cried,  "who 

hearkened  Israel's  wail ! " 
And  as  he  spake,  —  all  in  a  line,  seaward  the 

ships  set  sail. 

GEORGE  HOTJGHTON. 


In  order  to  draw  British  ships  from  this  block 
ade,  the  government  adopted  the  policy  of  send 
ing  light  squadrons  into  distant  seaa,  and  in 
October,  1812,  the  32-gun  frigate  Essex,  Captain 
David  Porter,  sailed  to  join  the  Constitution  and 
Hornet  for  a  cruise  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  Porter 
failed  to  find  the  other  ships  and  decided  to  double 
Cape  Horn  and  cruise  in  the  Pacific.  He  captured 
a  number  of  prizes,  and  completely  destroyed 
British  commerce  in  the  south  Pacific.  A  strong 
force  of  British  cruisers  was  sent  out  to  intercept 
him,  and  finally,  on  March  28,  1814,  he  was  cauxht 
in  a  disabled  condition  at  Valparaiso  by  two 
British  ships,  and  attacked,  notwithstanding  the 
neutrality  of  the  port.  After  a  desperate  fight,  he 
was  forced  to  surrender. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  VALPARAISO 

Proeliis  audax,  neque  te  silebo.  —  HOR. 
[March  28,  1814] 

FROM  the  laurel's  fairest  bough. 

Let  the  muse  her  garland  twine, 
To  adorn  our  Porter's  brow, 

Who,  beyond  the  burning  line, 
Led  his  caravan  of  tars  o'er  the  tide. 
To  the  pilgrims  fill  the  bowl, 
Who,  around  the  southern  pole, 
Saw  new  constellations  roll, 
For  their  guide. 

"Heave  the  topmast  from  the  board, 
And  our  ship  for  action  clear, 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


By  the  cannon  and  the  sword, 
We  will  die  or  conquer  here. 
The  foe,  of  twice  our  force,  nears  us  fast: 
To  your  posts,  my  faithful  tars ! 
Mind  your  rigging,  guns,  and  spars, 
And  defend  your  stripes  and  stars 
To  the  last." 

At  the  captain's  bold  command, 

Flew  each  sailor  to  his  gun, 
And  resolved  he  there  would  stand, 
Though  the  odds  was  two  to  one. 
To  defend  his  flag  and  ship  with  his  life: 
High  on  every  mast  display 'd, 
"God,  Our  Country,  and  Free  Trade," 
E'en  the  bravest  braver  made 
For  the  strife. 

Fierce  the  storm  of  battle  pours: 
But  unmoved  as  ocean's  rock, 
When  the  tempest  round  it  roars, 

Every  seaman  breasts  the  shock, 
Boldly  stepping  where  his  brave  messmates 

fall. 

O'er  his  head,  full  oft  and  loud, 
Like  the  vulture  in  a  cloud, 
As  it  cuts  the  twanging  shroud, 
Screams  the  ball. 

Before  the  siroc  blast 

From  its  iron  caverns  driven, 
Drops  the  sear'd  and  shiver'd  mast, 

By  the  bolt  of  battle  riven, 
And  higher  heaps  the  ruin  of  the  deck  — 
As  the  sailor,  bleeding,  dies, 
To  his  comrades  lifts  his  eyes, 
"Let  our  flag  still  wave,"  he  cries, 
O'er  the  wreck. 

In  echo  to  the  sponge, 

Hark!  along  the  silent  lee, 
Oft  is  heard  the  solemn  plunge, 

In  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
'T  is  not  the  sullen  plunge  of  the  dead, 
But  the  self-devoted  tar, 
Who,  to  grace  the  victor's  car, 
Scorns  from  home  and  friends  afar 
To  be  led. 

Long  live  the  gallant  crew 

Who  survived  that  day  of  blood: 

And  may  fortune  soon  renew 

Equal  battle  on  the  flood. 
Long  live  the  glorious  names  of  the  brave 


O'er  these  martyrs  of  the  deep, 
Oft  the  roving  tar  shall  weep, 
Crying,  "Sweetly  may  they  sleep 
'Neath  the  wave." 

With  the  opening  of  the  spring  of  1814,  the 
campaign  along  the  Canadian  border  was  begun 
with  unusual  activity.  The  army  there  was  under 
Major-General  Jacob  Brown,  and  on  July  25 
met  the  British  in  the  fiercely  contested  battle  of 
Lundy's  Lane,  or  Bridgewater. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BRIDGEWATER 

[July  25,  1814] 

O'ER  Huron's  wave  the  sun  was  low, 
The  weary  soldier  watch 'd  the  bow 
Fast  fading  from  the  cloud  below 

The  dashing  of  Niagara. 
And  while  the  phantom  chain'd  his  sight, 
Ah !   little  thought  he  of  the  fight  — 
The  horrors  of  the  dreamless  night, 

That  posted  on  so  rapidly. 

Soon,  soon  is  fled  each  softer  charm; 
The  drum  and  trumpet  sound  alarm, 
And  bid  each  warrior  nerve  his  arm 

For  boldest  deeds  of  chivalry; 
The  burning  red-cross,  waving  high, 
Like  meteor  in  the  evening  sky, 
Proclaims  the  haughty  foemen  nigh 

To  try  the  strife  of  rivalry. 

Columbia's  banner  floats  as  proud, 
Her  gallant  band  around  it  crowd, 
And  swear  to  guard  or  make  their  shroud 

The  starred  flag  of  liberty. 
"Haste,  haste  thee,  Scott,  to  meet  the  foe, 
And  let  the  scornful  Briton  know, 
Well  strung  the  arm  and  firm  the  blow 

Of  him  who  strikes  for  liberty." 

Loud,  loud,  the  din  of  battle  rings, 
Shrill  through  the  ranks  the  bullet  sings, 
And  onward  fierce  each  foeman  springs 

To  meet  his  peer  in  gallantry. 
Behind  the  hills  descends  the  sun, 
The  work  of  death  is  but  begun, 
And  red  through  twilight's  shadows  dun 

Blazes  the  vollied  musketry. 

"  Charge,  Miller,  charge  the  foe  once  more,' 
And  louder  than  Niagara's  roar 
Along  the  line  is  heard,  encore, 

"On,  on  to  death  or  victory." 


THE   BATTLE   OF   STONINGTON 


309 


From  line  to  line,  with  lurid  glow, 
High  arching  shoots  the  rocket's  bow, 
And  lights  the  mingled  scene  below 

Of  carnage,  death,  and  misery. 

The  middle  watch  has  now  begun, 
The  horrid  battle-fray  is  done, 
No  longer  beats  the  furious  drum, 

To  death,  to  death  or  victory. 
All,  all  is  still  —  with  silent  tread 
The  watchman  steals  among  the  dead, 
To  guard  his  comrade's  lowly  bed, 

Till  morning  give  him  sepulture. 

Low  in  the  west,  of  splendor  shorn, 
The  midnight  moon  with  bloody  horn 
Sheds  her  last  beam  on  him,  forlorn, 

Who  fell  in  fight  so  gloriously; 
Oh !   long  her  crescent  wax  and  wane 
Ere  she  behold  such  fray  again, 
Such  dismal  night,  such  heaps  of  slain, 

Foe  mix'd  with  foe  promiscuously. 

Colonel  Winfield  Scott  commanded  a  battalion 
at  this  battle,  and  by  a  series  of  desperate  charges 
drove  the  British  from  the  field.  But  so  shaken 
was  the  American  army  that  it  was  compelled  to 
retreat  to  camp,  after  spending  the  night  upon  the 
conquered  ground. 

THE  HERO  OF    BRIDGEWATER 

[July  25,  1814] 

SEIZE,  O  seize  the  sounding  lyre, 

With  its  quivering  string! 
Strike  the  chords,  in  ecstasy, 

Whilst  loud  the  valleys  ring! 
Sing  the  chief,  who,  gloriously, 

From  England's  veteran  band, 
Pluck'd  the  wreaths  of  victory, 

To  grace  his  native  land ! 

Where  Bridgewater's  war-famed  stream 

Saw  the  foemen  reel, 
Thrice  repulsed,  with  burnish'd  gleam 

Of  bayonet,  knife,  and  steel; 
And  its  crimson'd  waters  run 

Red  with  gurgling  flow, 
As  Albion's  gathering  hosts  his  arm, 

His  mighty  arm,  laid  low. 

Strike  the  sounding  string  of  fame, 
O  lyre!   Beat  loud,  ye  drums! 

Ye  clarion  blasts,  exalt  his  name! 
Behold  the  hero  comes! 


I  see  Columbia,  joyously, 

Her  palmy  circlet  throw 
Around  his  high  victorious  brow 

Who  laid  her  foemen  low! 

Take  him,  Fame!  for  thine  he  is! 

On  silvery  columns,  rear 
The  name  of  Scott,  whence  envious  Time 

Shall  ne'er  its  honors  tear! 
And  thou,  O  Albion,  quake  with  dread! 

Ye  veterans  shrink,  the  while, 
Whene'er  his  glorious  name  shall  sound 

To  shake  your  sea-girt  isle ! 

CHARLES  L.  S.  JONES. 


The  British,  meanwhile,  had  extended  their 
blockade  to  the  whole  coast  of  the  United  States, 
and  were  ordered  to  "destroy  and  lay  waste  all 
towns  and  districts  of  the  United  States  found 
accessive  to  the  attack  of  the  British  armaments." 
In  pursuance  of  these  orders,  town  after  town 
along  the  coast  was  bombarded  and  burned.  On 
August  9,  1814,  a  squadron  descended  on  the  little 
village  of  Stonington,  but  met  a  warm  reception. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  STONINGTON 
ON  THE  SEABOARD  OF  CON 
NECTICUT 

[August  9-12,  1814] 

FOUR  gallant  ships  from  England  came 
Freighted  deep  with  fire  and  flame, 
And  other  things  we  need  not  name, 
To  have  a  dash  at  Stonington. 

Now  safely  moor'd,  their  work  begun; 
They  thought  to  make  the  Yankees  run, 
And  have  a  mighty  deal  of  fun 
In  stealing  sheep  at  Stonington. 

A  deacon  then  popp'd  up  his  head, 
And  parson  Jones's  sermon  read, 
In  which  the  reverend  doctor  said 
That  they  must  fight  for  Stonington. 

A  townsman  bade  them,  next,  attend 
To  sundry  resolutions  penn'd, 
By  which  they  promised  to  defend 
With  sword  and  gun  old  Stonington. 

The  ships  advancing  different  ways, 
The  Britons  soon  began  to  blaze, 
And  put  th'  old  women  in  amaze, 
Who  fear'd  the  loss  of  Stonington. 


3io 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  Yankees  to  their  fort  repair'd, 
And  made  as  though  they  little  cared 
For  all  that  came  —  though  very  hard 
The  cannon  play'd  on  Stonington. 

The  Ramillies  began  the  attack, 
Despatch  came  forward  —  bold  and  black  — 
And  none  can  tell  what  kept  them  back 
From  setting  fire  to  Stonington. 

The  bombardiers  with  bomb  and  ball. 
Soon  made  a  farmer's  barrack  fall, 
And  did  a  cow-house  sadly  maul 
That  stood  a  mile  from  Stonington. 

They  kill'd  a  goose,  they  kilPd  a  hen, 
Three  hogs  they  wounded  in  a  pen  — 
They  dash'd  away,  and  pray  what  then? 
This  was  not  taking  Stonington. 

The  shells  were  thrown,  the  rockets  flew, 
But  not  a  shell,  of  all  they  threw, 
Though  every  house  was  full  in  view, 
Could  burn  a  house  at  Stonington. 

To  have  their  turn  they  thought  but  fair ;  — 
The  Yankees  brought  two  guns  to  bear, 
And,  sir,  it  would  have  made  you  stare, 
This  smoke  of  smokes  at  Stonington. 

They  bored  Pactolus  through  and  through, 
And  kill'd  and  wounded  of  her  crew 
So  many,  that  she  bade  adieu 
T'  the  gallant  boys  of  Stonington. 

The  brig  Despatch  was  hull'd  and  torn  — 
So  crippled,  riddled,  so  forlorn, 
No  more  she  cast  an  eye  of  scorn 
On  the  little  fort  at  Stonington. 

The  Ramillies  gave  up  th'  affray, 
And,  with  her  comrades,  sneak'd  away, 
Such  was  the  valor,  on  that  day, 
Of  British  tars  near  Stonington. 

But  some  assert,  on  certain  grounds 
(Besides  the  damage  and  the  wounds), 
It  cost  the  king  ten  thousand  pounds 
To  have  a  dash  at  Stonington. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


Occasionally,  an  American  ship  would  manage 
to  deal  a  telling  blow.  The  Wasp,  cruising  in  the 
English  Channel,  did  especially  effective  work, 
among  her  most  famous  actions  being  that  with 


the  Avon  on  the  night  of  September  1,  1814,  in 
which,  after  a  spirited  fight,  the  Avon  was  sunk. 

THE   OCEAN-FIGHT 

[September  1,  1814] 

THE  sun  had  sunk  beneath  the  west, 
When  two  proud  barks  to  battle  press'd, 
With  swelling  sail  and  streamers  dress'd, 
So  gallantly. 

Proud  Britain's  pennon  flouts  the  skies: 
Columbia's  flag  more  proudly  flies, 
Her  emblem  stars  of  victories 
Beam  gloriously. 

Sol's  lingering  rays,  through  vapors  shed, 
Have  streak'd  the  sky  of  bloody  red, 
And  now  the  ensanguined  lustre  spread 
Heaven's  canopy. 

Dread  prelude  to  that  awful  night 
When  Britain's  and  Columbia's  might 
Join'd  in  the  fierce  and  bloody  fight, 
Hard  rivalry. 

Now,  lowering  o'er  the  stormy  deep, 
Dank,  sable  clouds  more  threatening  sweep: 
Yet  still  the  barks  their  courses  keep 
Unerringly. 

The  northern  gales  more  fiercely  blow, 
The  white  foam  dashing  o'er  the  prow; 
The  starry  crescent  round  each  bow 
Beams  vividly. 

Near  and  more  near  the  war-ships  ride, 
Till,  ranged  for  battle,  side  by  side, 
Each  warrior's  heart  beats  high  with  pride 
Of  chivalry. 

'T  was  awful,  ere  the  fight  begun. 
To  see  brave  warriors  round  each  gun, 
While  thoughts  on  home  and  carnage  run, 
Stand  silently. 

As  death-like  stillness  reigns  around, 
Nature  seems  wrapp'd  in  peace  profound, 
Ere  fires,  volcanic,  mountain  bound, 
Burst  furiously. 

So,  bursting  from  Columbia's  prow, 
Her  thunder  on  the  red-cross  foe, 
The  lurid  cloud's  sulphuric  glow 
Glares  awfully. 


THE  LOST   WAR-SLOOP 


Reechoing  peals  more  fiercely  roar, 
Britannia's  shatter 'd  sides  run  gore, 
The  foaming  waves  that  raged  before, 
Sink,  tremulous. 

Columbia's  last  sulphuric  blaze, 
That  lights  her  stripes  and  starry  rays, 
The  vanquish'd  red-cross  flag  betrays, 
Struck  fearfully. 

And,  hark !  their  piercing  shrieks  of  wo ! 
Haste,  haste  and  save  the  sinking  foe: 
Haste,  e'er  their  wreck  to  bottom  go, 
Brave  conquerors. 

Now,  honor  to  the  warriors  brave, 
Whose  field  of  fame,  the  mountain  wave, 
Their  corses  bear  to  ocean's  cave, 
Their  sepulchre. 

Their  country's  paeans  swell  their  praise; 
And  whilst  the  warm  tear,  gushing,  strays, 
Full  many  a  bard  shall  chant  his  lays, 
Their  requiem. 

The  Wasp  herself  never  returned  to  port.  On 
September  21  she  captured  the  Atalanta  and  put 
a  crew  on  board  to  take  the  prize  to  America. 
They  parted  company,  and  the  Wasp  was  never 
seen  again. 

THE   LOST  WAR-SLOOP 

(THE  WASP,  1814) 

O  THE  pride  of  Portsmouth  water, 
Toast  of  every  brimming  beaker,  — 
Eighteen  hundred  and  fourteen  on  land  and 

sea,  — 

Wras  the  Wasp,  the  gallant  war-sloop, 
Built  of  oaks  Kearsarge  had  guarded, 
Pines  of  Maine  to  lift  her  colors  high  and  free ! 
Every  timber  scorning  cowards; 
Every  port  alert  for  foemen 
From  the  masthead  seen  on  weather-side  or 

lee;  — 

With  eleven  guns  to  starboard, 
And  eleven  guns  to  larboard, 
All  for  glory  on  a  morn  of  May  sailed  she. 

British  ships  were  in  the  offing; 

Swift  and  light  she  sped  between  them,  — 

Well  her  daring  crew  knew  shoal  and  wind 

and  tide; 

They  had  come  from  Portsmouth  river, 
Sea-girt  Marblehead  and  Salem, 


Bays  and  islands  where  the  fisher-folk  abide; 
Come  for  love  of  home  and  country, 
Come  with  wrongs  that  cried  for  vengeance, — 
Every  man  among  them  brave  and  true  and 

tried. 

"Hearts  of  oak"  are  British  seamen? 
Hearts  of  fire  were  these,  their  kindred, 
Flaming  till  the  haughty  foe  should  be  de 
scried  ! 

From  the  mountains,  from  the  prairies, 
Blew  the  west  winds  glad  to  waft  her ;  — 
Ah,  what  goodly  ships  before  her  guns  went 

down! 

Ships  with  wealth  of  London  laden, 
Ships  with  treasures  of  the  Indies, 
Till  her  name  brought  fear  to  British  wharf 

and  town; 

Till  the  war-sloops  Reindeer,  Avon, 
To  her  valor  struck  their  colors, 
Making  coast  and  ocean  ring  with  her  renown ; 
While  her  captain  cried,  exultant, 
"Britain,  to  the  bold  Republic, 
Of  the  empire  of  the  seas  shall  yield  the  crown !" 

Oh,  the  woful,  woful  ending 

Of  the  pride  of  Portsmouth  water! 

Never  more  to  harbor  nor  to  shore  came  sheJ 

Springs  returned  but  brought  no  tidings; 

Mothers,  maidens,  broken-hearted, 

Wept  the  gallant  lads  that  sailed  away  in  glee. 

Did  the  bolts  of  heaven  blast  her? 

Did  the  hurricanes  o'erwhelm  her 

With  her  starry  banner  and  her  tall   masts 

three? 

Was  a  pirate-fleet  her  captor? 
Did  she  drift  to  polar  oceans  ? 
Who  shall  tell  the  awful  secret  of  the  sea ! 

Who  shall  tell  ?  yet  many  a  sailor 

In  his  watch  at  dawn  or  midnight, 

When  the  wind  is  wildest  and  the  black  waves 

moan, 

Sees  a  stanch  three-master  looming; 
Hears  the  hurried  call  to  quarters. 
The  drum's  quick  beat  and  the  bugle  fiercely 

blown ;  — 

Then  the  cannon's  direful  thunder 
Echoes  far  along  the  billows; 
Then  the  victor's  shout  for  the  foe  over 
thrown  ;  — 

And  the  watcher  knows  the  phantom 
Is  the  Wasp,  the  gallant  war-sloop, 
Still  a  rover  of  the  seas  and  glory's  own ! 
EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


312 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  abdication  of  Napoleon  enabled  England  to 
turn  her  undivided  attention  to  the  war  with 
America,  and  a  large  body  of  troops  was  detailed 
for  service  here.  Having  lost  control  of  Lake  Erie 
and  Lake  Ontario,  England  determined  to  secure 
Lake  Champlain  and  to  invade  New  York  by 
this  route.  A  force  of  twelve  thousand  regulars, 
under  General  George  Prevost,  started  from  Mon 
treal  early  in  August,  while  the  British  naval 
force  on  the  lake  was  augmented  to  nineteen  ves 
sels. 

ON  THE  BRITISH  INVASION 

[1814] 

FROM  France,  desponding  and  betray'd, 
From  liberty  in  ruins  laid, 
Exulting  Britain  has  display'd 
Her  flag,  again  to  invade  us. 

Her  myrmidons,  with  murdering  eye, 
Across  the  broad  Atlantic  fly, 
Prepared  again  their  strength  to  try, 
And  strike  our  country's  standard. 

Lord  Wellington's  ten  thousand  slaves, 
And  thrice  ten  thousand,  on  the  waves, 
And  thousands  more  of  brags  and  braves 
Are  under  sail,  and  coming, 

To  burn  our  towns,  to  seize  our  soil, 
To  change  our  laws,  our  country  spoil, 
And  Madison  to  Elba's  isle 
To  send  without  redemption. 

In  Boston  state  they  hope  to  find 
A  Yankee  host  of  kindred  mind, 
To  aid  their  arms,  to  rise  and  bind 
Their  countrymen  in  shackles. 

But  no  such  thing  —  it  will  not  do  — 
At  least,  not  while  a  Jersey  Blue 
Is  to  the  cause  of  freedom  true, 
Or  the  bold  Pennsylvanian. 

A  curse  on  England's  frantic  schemes! 
Both  mad  and  blind,  her  monarch  dreams 
Of  crowns  and  kingdoms  in  these  climes, 
Where  kings  have  had  their  sentence. 

Though  Washington  has  left  our  coast, 
Yet  other  Washingtons  we  boast, 
Who  rise,  instructed  by  his  ghost, 
To  punish  all  invaders. 


Go  where  they  will,  where'er  they  land, 
This  pilfering,  plundering,  pirate  band, 
They  liberty  will  find  at  hand 
To  hurl  them  to  perdition! 

If  in  Virginia  they  appear. 
Their  fate  is  fix'd,  their  doom  is  near. 
Death  in  their  front,  and  hell  their  rear; 
So  says  the  gallant  buckskin. 

All  Carolina  is  prepared, 
And  Charleston  doubly  on  her  guard; 
Where,  once.  Sir  Peter  badly  fared. 
So  blasted  by  Fort  Moultrie. 

If  farther  south  they  turn  their  views, 
With  veteran  troops,  or  veteran  crews, 
The  curse  of  Heaven  their  march  pursues, 
To  send  them  all  a-packing. 

The  tallest  mast  that  sails  the  wave, 
The  longest  keel  its  waters  lave, 
Will  bring  them  to  an  early  grave 
On  the  shores  of  Pensacola. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 

The  American  commander  on  the  lake  was 
Thomas  Macdonough,  and  by  almost  herculean 
efforts  he  managed  to  build  and  launch  a  ship,  a 
schooner,  and  a  number  of  gunboats,  so  that  his 
total  force  was  raised  to  fourteen  sail.  With  this 
fleet,  he  proceeded  to  Plattsburg  and  anchored 
in  Plattsburg  Bay.  On  September  11  the  British 
fleet,  certain  of  victory,  sailed  in  and  attacked 
him,  but  was  ignominiously  defeated. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LAKE  CHAM- 
PLAIN 

[September  11,  1814] 

PARADING  near  Saint  Peter's  flood 
Full  fourteen  thousand  soldiers  stood; 
Allied  with  natives  of  the  wood. 
With  frigates,  sloops,  and  galleys  near; 
Which  southward,  now,  began  to  steer; 
Their  object  was,  Ticonderogue. 

Assembled  at  Missisqui  bay 
A  feast  they  held,  to  hail  the  day, 
When  all  should  bend  to  British  sway 
From  Plattsburgh  to  Ticonderogue. 

And  who  could  tell,  if  reaching  there 
They  might  not  other  laurels  share 
And  England's  flag  in  triumph  bear 
To  the  capitol,  at  Albany ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLATTSBURG  BAY 


Sir  George  advanced,  with  fire  and  sword, 
The  frigates  were  with  vengeance  stored. 
The  strength  of  Mars  was  felt  on  board,  — 
When  Downie  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
Huzza!  for  death  or  victory! 

Sir  George  beheld  the  prize  at  stake. 
And,  with  his  veterans,  made  the  attack, 
Macomb's  brave  legions  drove  him  back; 
And  England's  fleet  approached,  to  meet 
A  desperate  combat,  on  the  lake. 

From  Isle  La  Motte  to  Saranac 

With   sulphurous  clouds  the  heavens  were 

black; 

We  saw  advance  the  Confiance, 
Shall  blood  and  carnage  mark  her  track, 
To  gain  dominion  on  the  lake. 

Then  on  our  ships  she  poured  her  Same, 
And  many  a  tar  did  kill  or  maim. 
Who  suffered  for  their  country's  fame, 
Her  soil  to  save,  her  rights  to  guard. 

Macdonough,  now,  began  his  play, 
And  soon  his  seamen  heard  him  say, 
"No  Saratoga  yields,  this  day, 
To  all  the  force  that  Britain  sends. 

"Disperse,  my  lads,  and  man  the  waist, 
Be  firm,  and  to  your  stations  haste, 
And  England  from  Champlain  is  chased, 
If  you  behave  as  you  see  me." 

The  fire  began  with  awful  roar; 
At  our  first  flash  the  artillery  tore, 
From  his  proud  stand,  their  commodore, 
A  presage  of  the  victory. 

The  skies  were  hid  in  flame  and  smoke, 
Such  thunders  from  the  cannon  spoke, 
The  contest  such  an  aspect  took 
As  if  all  nature  went  to  wreck! 

Amidst  his  decks,  with  slaughter  strewed, 
Unmoved,  the  brave  Macdonough  stood, 
Or  waded  through  a  scene  of  blood, 
At  every  step  that  round  him  streamed : 

He  stood  amidst  Columbia's  sons, 
He  stood  amidst  dismounted  guns, 
He  fought  amidst  heart-rending  groans, 
The  tattered  sail,  the  tottering  mast. 


Then,  round  about,  his  ship  he  wore, 
And  charged  his  guns  with  vengeance  sore, 
And  more  than  Etna  shook  the  shore  — 
The  foe  confessed  the  contest  vain. 

In  vain  they  fought,  in  vain  they  sailed, 
That  day;  for  Britain's  fortune  failed, 
And  their  best  efforts  naught  availed 
To  hold  dominion  on  Champlain. 

So,  down  their  colors  to  the  deck 

The   vanquished    struck  —  their   ships  a 

wreck  — 
What  dismal  tidings  for  Quebec, 

What  news  for  England  and  her  prince! 

For,  in  this  fleet,  from  England  won, 
A  favorite  project  is  undone; 
Her  sorrows  only  are  begun  — 
And  she  may  want,  and  very  soon. 
Her  armies  for  her  own  defence. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLATTSBURG 
BAY 

[September  11,  1814] 

Plattsburg  Bay!  Plattsburg  Bay! 
Blue  and  gold  in  the  dawning  ray, 
Crimson  under  the  high  noonday 
With  the  reek  of  the  fray  I 

It  was  Thomas  Macdonough,  as  gallant  a 

sailor 

As  ever  went  scurrying  over  the  main ; 
And  he  cried  from  his  deck,  //  they  think  I  'm 

a  quailer, 
And  deem  they  can  capture  this  Lake  of 

Champlain, 

We  'II  show  them  they  're  not  fighting  France, 
sir,  nor  Spain! 

So  from  Cumberland  Head  to  the  little  Crab 
Island 

He  scattered  his  squadron  in  trim  battle- 
line; 

And  when  he  saw  Downie  come  rounding  the 
highland, 

He  knelt   him,   beseeching  for  guidance 
divine, 

Imploring  that  Heaven  would  crown  his 
design. 


314 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Then  thundered  the  Eagle    her    lusty   de 
fiance; 

The  stout  Saratoga  aroused  with  a  roar; 
Soon  gunboat  and  galley  in  hearty  alliance 
Their  resonant  volley  of  compliments  pour ; 
And  ever  Macdonough  's  the  man  to  the 
fore! 

And  lo,  when  the  fight  toward  its  fiercest  was 

swirling, 

A  game-cock,  released  by  a  splintering  ball, 
Flew  high  in  the  ratlines,  the  smoke  round  him 

curling, 

And  over  the  din  gave  his  trumpeting  call, 
An  omen  of  ultimate  triumph  to  all! 

Then  a  valianter  light  touched  the  powder- 
grimed  faces; 
Then  faster  the  shot  seemed  to  plunge 

from  the  gun; 
And  we  shattered  their  yards  and  we  sundered 

their  braces, 
And  the  fume  of  our  cannon  —  it  shrouded 

the  sun; 

Cried  Macdonough  —  Once  more,  and  the 
battle  is  won! 

Now,  the  flag  of  the  haughty  Confiance  is 

trailing; 
The  Linnet  in  woe  staggers  in  toward  the 

shore ; 
The  Finch  is  a  wreck  from  her  keel  to  her 

railing ; 
The  galleys  flee  fast  to  the  strain  of  the 

oar; 
Macdonough !  't  is  he  is  the  man  to  the  fore ! 

Oh,  our  main  decks  were  grim  and  our  gun 

decks  were  gory, 
And  many  a  brave  brow  was  pallid  with 

pain ; 
And  while  some  won  to  death,  yet  we  all  won 

to  glory 
Who  fought  with  Macdonough  that  day  on 

Champlain, 

And  humbled  her  pride  who  is  queen  of  the 
main! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

While  the  naval  battle  wae  in  progress,  Prevost 
made  an  assault  on  the  American  lines,  but  was 
repulsed  with  loss,  and  learning  of  the  fleet's  de 
feat,  ordered  a  retreat.  This  was  so  precipitate 
that  it  was  almost  a  flight,  and  great  quantities 
of  artillery,  stores,  and  provisions  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Americans. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLATTSBURG 

[September  11,  1814] 

SIR  GEORGE  PREVOST,  with  all  his  host, 

March'd  forth  from  Montreal,  sir, 
Both  he  and  they  as  blithe  and  gay 

As  going  to  a  ball,  sir. 
The  troops  he  chose  were  all  of  those 

That  conquer'd  Marshall  Soult,  sir; 
Who  at  Garonne  (the  fact  is  known) 

Scarce  brought  they  to  a  halt,  sir. 

With  troops  like  these,  he  thought  with  ease 

To  crush  the  Yankee  faction: 
His  only  thought  was  how  he  ought 

To  bring  them  into  action. 
"Your  very  names,"  Sir  George  exclaims, 

"Without  a  gun  or  bayonet, 
Will  pierce  like  darts  through  Yankee  hearts. 

And  all  their  spirits  stagnate. 

"  Oh !  how  I  dread  lest  they  have  fled 

And  left  their  puny  fort,  sir, 
For  sure  Macomb  won't  stay  at  home, 

T'  afford  us  any  sport,  sir. 
Good-by!"   he  said  to  those  that  stay'd: 

"Keep  close  as  mice  or  rats  snug: 
We'll  just  run  out  upon  a  scout, 

To  burn  the  town  of  Plattsburg." 

Then  up  Champlain  with  might  and  main 

He  marched  in  dress  array,  sir; 
With  fife  and  drum  to  scare  Macomb, 

And  drive  him  quite  away,  sir. 
And,  side  by  side,  their  nation's  pride 

Along  the  current  beat,  sir: 
Sworn  not  to  sup  till  they  ate  up 

M'Donough  and  his  fleet,  sir. 

Still  onward  came  these  men  of  fame, 

Resolved  to  give  "no  quarter:" 
But  to  their  cost  they  found  at  last 

That  they  had  caught  a  Tartar. 
At  distant  shot  awhile  they  fought, 

By  water  and  by  land,  sir: 
His  knightship  ran  from  man  to  man, 

And  gave  his  dread  command,  sir. 

"  Britons,  strike  home !   this  dog  Macomb  — 

So  well  the  fellow  knows  us  — 
Will  just  as  soon  jump  o'er  the  moon 

As  venture  to  oppose  us. 
With  quick  despatch  light  every  match, 

Man  every  gun  and  swivel, 


THE   BATTLE   OF   BALTIMORE 


Cross  in  a  crack  the  Saranac, 
And  drive  'em  to  the  devil ! " 

The  Vermont  ranks  that  lined  the  banks, 

Then  poised  the  unerring  rifle, 
And  to  oppose  their  haughty  foes 

They  found  a  perfect  trifle. 
Meanwhile  the  fort  kept  up  such  sport, 

They  thought  tne  devil  was  in  it; 
Their  mighty  train  play'd  off  in  vain  — 

'T  was  silenced  in  a  minute. 

Sir  George,  amazed,  so  wildly  gazed, 

Such  frantic  gambols  acted, 
Of  all  his  men,  not  one  in  ten 

But  thought  him  quite  distracted. 
He  cursed  and  swore,  his  hair  he  tore, 

Then  jump'd  upon  his  pony, 
And  gallop'd  off  towards  the  bluff, 

To  look  for  Captain  Downie. 

But  when  he  spied  M'Donough  ride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  glory, 
He  hasten 'd  back  to  Saranac, 

To  tell  the  dismal  story: 
"My  gallant  crews  —  Oh !  shocking  news  — 

Are  all  or  killed  or  taken! 
Except  a  few  that  just  withdrew 

In  time  to  save  their  bacon. 

"  Old  England's  pride  must  now  subside. 

Oh !   how  the  news  will  shock  her, 
To  have  her  fleet  not  only  beat, 

But  sent  to  Davy's  locker. 
From  this  sad  day,  let  no  one  say 

Britannia  rules  the  ocean : 
We've  dearly  bought  the  humbling  thought, 

That  this  is  all  a  notion. 

"With  one  to  ten  I'd  fight  'gainst  men, 

But  these  are  Satan's  legions, 
With  malice  fraught,  some  piping  hot 

From  Pluto's  darkest  regions ! 
Helas !   mon  Dieu !   what  shall  I  do  ? 

I  smell  the  burning  sulphur  — 
Set  Britain's  isle  all  rank  and  file, 

Such  men  would  soon  engulf  her. 

"That's  full  as  bad  —  Oh!  I'll  run  mad! 

Those  western  hounds  are  summon 'd ; 
Gaines,  Scott,  and  Brown  are  coming  down, 

To  serve  me  just  like  Drummond. 
Thick,  too,  as  bees,  the  Vermontese 

Are  swarming  to  the  lake,  sir; 


And  Izard's  men,  come  back  again, 
Lie  hid  in  every  brake,  sir. 

"Good  Brisbane,  beat  a  quick  retreat, 

Before  their  forces  join,  sir: 
For,  sure  as  fate,  they've  laid  a  bait 

To  catch  us  like  Burgoyne.  sir. 
All  round  about,  keep  good  look  out: 

We'll  surely  be  surrounded; 
Since  I  could  crawl,  my  gallant  soul 

Was  never  so  astounded." 

The  rout  begun.  Sir  George  led  on, 

His  men  ran  helter  skelter. 
Each  tried  his  best  t'  outrun  the  rest 

To  gain  a  place  of  shelter; 
To  hide  their  fear,  they  gave  a  cheer, 

And  thought  it  mighty  cunning  — 
He'll  fight,  they  say,  another  day, 

Who  saves  himself  by  running! 


Although  the  blow  at  New  York  had  been 
turned  aside,  another,  aimed  at  the  Nation's 
Capital,  fell  with  deadly  effect.  On  August  24, 
1814,  a  strong  force  landed  in  Chesapeake  Bay, 
routed  a  force  of  militia  at  Bladensburg,  entered 
Washington,  and  burned  the  Capitol,  White 
House,  and  many  other  public  buildings.  A  few 
days  later,  Baltimore  was  attacked. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BALTIMORE 

[September  12,  1814] 

OLD  Ross,  Cockburn,  and  Cochrane  too, 

And  many  a  bloody  villain  more, 
Swore  with  their  bloody  savage  crew, 

That  they  would  plunder  Baltimore. 
But  General  Winder  being  afraid 

That  his  militia  would  not  stand, 
He  sent  away  to  crave  the  aid 

Of  a  few  true  Virginians. 

Then  up  we  rose  with  hearts  elate, 
To  help  our  suffering  sister  state. 

When  first  our  orders  we  received, 

For  to  prepare  without  delay, 
Our  wives  and  sweethearts  for  to  leave. 

And  to  the  army  march  away, 
Although  it  grieved  our  hearts  full  sore, 

To  leave  our  sweet  Virginia  shore, 
We  kiss'd  our  sweethearts  o'er  and  o'er? 

And  march 'd  like  true  Virginians. 
Adieu  awhile,  sweet  girls,  adieu, 
With  honor  we'll  return  to  you. 


316 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


With  rapid  marches  on  we  went, 

To  leave  our  sweet  Virginia  shore, 
No  halt  was  made,  no  time  was  spent, 

Till  we  arrived  at  Baltimore. 
The  Baltimoreans  did  us  greet, 

The  ladies  clapt  their  lily-white  hands, 
Exclaiming  as  we  passed  the  street, 

"  Welcome,  ye  brave  Virginians. 

May  Heaven  all  your  foes  confound, 
And  send  you  home  with  laurels  crown'd." 

We  had  not  been  in  quarters  long, 

Before  we  heard  the  dread  alarms, 
The  cannon  roar'd,  the  bells  did  ring, 

The  drum  did  beat  to  arms,  to  arms. 
Then  up  we  rose  to  face  our  foes, 

Determined  to  meet  them  on  the  strand, 
And  drive  them  back  from  fair  Freedom's 

shore, 
Or  die  like  brave  Virginians. 

In  Heaven  above  we  placed  our  trust, 
Well  knowing  that  our  cause  is  just. 

Then  Ross  he  landed  at  North  Point, 

With  seven  thousand  men  or  more, 
And  swore  by  that  time  next  night, 

That  he  would  be  in  Baltimore. 
But  Striker  met  him  on  the  strand, 

Attended  by  a  chosen  band, 
Where  he  received  a  fatal  shot 

From  a  brave  Pennsylvanian  — 
Whom  Heaven  directed  to  the  field, 
To  make  this  haughty  Briton  yield. 

Then  Cockburn  he  drew  up  his  fleet, 

To  bombard  Fort  McHenry, 
A  thinking  that  our  men,  of  course, 

Would  take  affright  and  run  away. 
The  fort  was    commanded   by  a   patriotic 

band, 

As  ever  graced  fair  Freedom's  land, 
And  he  who  did  the  fort  command 
Was  a  true  blue  Virginian. 
Long  may  we  have   brave  Armstead's 

name 
Recorded  on  the  book  of  fame. 

A  day  and  a  night  they  tried  their  might, 

But  found  their  bombs  did  not  prevail, 
And  seeing  their  army  put  to  flight, 

They  weigh'd  their  anchor  and  made  sail, 
Resolving  to  return  again, 

To  execute  their  former  plan; 
But  if  they  do,  they'll  find  us  still 

That  we  are  brave  Virginians. 


And  they  shall  know  before  they've  done, 
That  they  are  not  in  \\ashington. 

But  now  their  shipping  's  out  of  sight, 

And  each  man  takes  a  parting  glass, 
Drinks  to  his  true  love  and  heart's  delight, 

His  only  joy  and  bosom  friend, 
For  I  might  as  well  drink  a  health, 

For  I  hate  to  see  good  liquor  stand, 
That  America  may  always  boast 

That  we  are  brave  Virginians. 


The  next  day.  Admiral  Cochrane  moved  his 
fleet  into  position  to  attack  Fort  McHenry,  two 
miles  above  the  city,  and  began  a  terrific  bom 
bardment,  which  lasted  all  the  night.  The  fort 
answered  with  such  guns  as  would  reach  the  ships, 
and  when  morning  dawned,  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
were  still  floating  over  it.  The  British  feared  to 
attack  an  intrenchment  so  gallantly  defended,  and 
the  next  day  retreated  to  their  shipping. 


FORT   McHENRY 

[September  13,  1814] 

THY  blue  waves,  Patapsco,  flow'd  soft  and 

serene, 
Thy  hills  and  thy  valleys  were  cheerful  and 

gay, 
While  the  day-star  of  Peace  shed  its  beams  on 

the  scene, 
And  youth,  love,  and  beauty  reflected  its  ray. 

Where  white-bosom'd  commerce  late  reign'd 

o'er  thy  tide, 
And  zephyrs  of  gladness  expanded  each 

sail, 

I  saw  hostile  squadrons  in  dread  array  ride, 
While  their  thunders  reechoed  o'er  hill  and 
o'er  vale. 

But  our  heroes,  thy  sons,  proud  in  panoply 

rose, 
For  their  homes,  —  for  their  altars,  —  to 

conquer  or  die; 
With  the  lightning  of  freedom  encounter'd 

their  foes; 

Taught    the    veteran    to    tremble,  —  the 
valiant  to  fly. 

Now,    how   tranquil   thy   scenes   when   the 

clangors  of  war 

Late  broke  the  soft  dreams  of  the  fair  and 
the  young! 


THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER 


To  the  tombs  of  thy  heroes  shall  beauty  re 
pair, 

And  their  deeds  by  our  bards  shall  forever 
be  sung. 

On  the  iron-crown 'd  fortress  "that  frowns 

o'er  thy  flood," 
And  tells  the  sad  fate  of  the  gay  and  the 

brave, 

In  mournful  reflection  Eliza  late  stood, 
And  paid  a  soft  tribute  —  a  tear  on  their 
grave. 

To  the  manes  of  the  fallen,  oh !   how  grateful 

that  tear! 
Far  sweeter  to  me  than  the  Spring's  richest 

bloom: 

Such  rewards  light  the  fire  of  Chivalry  here, 
And  when  the  brave  fall  —  ever  hallow 
their  tomb. 


Just  before  the  bombardment  began,  Francis 
Scott  Key  had  put  out  to  the  admiral's  frigate  to 
arrange  for  an  exchange  of  prisoners,  and  was 
directed  to  remain  till  the  action  was  over.  All 
that  night  he  watched  the  flaming  shells,  and 
when,  by  the  first  rays  of  the  morning,  he  saw  his 
country's  flag  still  waving  above  the  fort,  he 
hastily  wrote  the  stirring  verses  which  have  since 
become  America's  national  song. 


THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER 

[September  13,  1814] 

O  SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's 

last  gleaming  ? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through 

the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gal 
lantly  streaming! 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  burst 
ing  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag 

was  still  there: 
O  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet 

wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of 

the  deep, 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread 
silence  reposes, 


What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  tower 
ing  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  dis 
closes  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's 

first  beam, 
In   full  glory  reflected   now  shines  on  the 

stream : 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner !    O  long 

may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly 

swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  con 
fusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no 

more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  foot 
steps'  pollution. 
No    refuge    could    save    the    hireling    and 

slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the 

grave: 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph 

doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave! 

Oh!   thus   be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall 

stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's 

desolation ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven- 
rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  pre 
served  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is 

just, 
And   this  be  our  motto:  "In  God   is  our 

trust." 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph 

shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave. 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY. 

The  destruction  of  Washington,  besides  being 
perhaps  the  most  outrageous  act  of  vandalism 
ever  committed  by  a  Christian  army,  was  a  grave 
tactical  error.  One  feeling  of  wrath  and  cry  for 
vengeance  swept  the  land;  party  differences  were 
forgotten,  and  the  whole  country  pressed  forward 
to  prosecute  the  war  with  an  enthusiasm  and 
vigor  which  had  before  been  sadly  wanting. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


YE   PARLIAMENT  OF   ENGLAND 

YE  parliament  of  England, 

You  lords  and  commons,  too, 
Consider  well  what  you're  about, 

And  what  you  're  going  to  do ; 
You're  now  to  fight  with  Yankees, 

I'm  sure  you'll  rue  the  day 
You  roused  the  sons  of  liberty, 

In  North  America. 

You  first  confined  our  commerce, 

And  said  our  ships  shan't  trade, 
You  next  impressed  our  seamen, 

And  used  them  as  your  slaves; 
You  then  insulted  Rogers, 

While  ploughing  o'er  the  main, 
And  had  not  we  declared  war, 

You'd  have  done  it  o'er  again. 

You  thought  our  frigates  were  but  few 

And  Yankees  could  not  fight, 
Until  brave  Hull  your  Guerriere  took 

And  banished  her  from  your  sight. 
The  Wasp  then  took  your  Frolic, 

We'll  nothing  say  to  that, 
The  Poictiers  being  of  the  line, 

Of  course  she  took  her  back. 

The  next,  your  Macedonian, 

No  finer  ship  could  swim, 
Decatur  took  her  gilt- work  off, 

And  then  he  sent  her  in. 
The  Java,  by  a  Yankee  ship 

Was  sunk,  you  all  must  know; 
The  Peacock  fine,  in  all  her  plume, 

By  Lawrence  down  did  go. 

Then  next  you  sent  your  Boxer, 

To  box  us  all  about, 
But  we  had  an  Enterprising  brig 

That  beat  your  Boxer  out; 
We  boxed  her  up  to  Portland, 

And  moored  her  off  the  town, 
To  show  the  sons  of  liberty 

The  Boxer  of  renown. 

The  next  upon  Lake  Erie, 

Where  Perry  had  some  fun, 
You  own  he  beat  your  naval  force, 

And  caused  them  for  to  run; 
This  was  to  you  a  eore  defeat, 

The  like  ne'er  known  before  — 
Your  British  squadron  beat  complete  — 

Some  took,  some  run  ashore. 


There's  Rogers  in  the  President, 

Will  burn,  sink,  and  destroy; 
The  Congress,  on  the  Brazil  coast, 

Your  commerce  will  annoy; 
The  Essex,  in  the  South  Seas, 

Will  put  out  all  your  lights, 
The  flag  she  waves  at  her  mast-head  — 

"Free  Trade  and  Sailor's  Rights." 

Lament,  ye  sons  of  Britain, 

Far  distant  is  the  day, 
When  you'll  regain  by  British  force 

What  you've  lost  in  America; 
Go  tell  your  king  and  parliament, 

By  all  the  world  't  is  known, 
That  British  force,  by  sea  and  land, 

By  Yankees  is  o'erthrown. 

Use  every  endeavor. 

And  strive  to  make  a  peace, 
For  Yankee  ships  are  building  fast, 

Their  navy  to  increase; 
They  will  enforce  their  commerce, 

The  laws  by  heaven  are  made, 
That  Yankee  ships  in  time  of  peace 

To  any  port  may  trade. 


THE   BOWER   OF   PEACE 

From  "  Ode  Written  during  the  War  with 
America,  1814  " 

WHEN  shall  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 

The  thunderbolt  aside, 
And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown, 
Rest  in  the  Bower  of  Peace  ? 

Not  long  may  thi's  unnatural  strife  endure 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  deep; 
Not  long  may  men,  with  vain  ambition  drunk, 

And  insolent  in  wrong, 
Afflict  with  their  misrule  the  indignant  land 
Where  Washington  hath  left 

His  awful  memory 
A  light  for  after-times! 
Vile  instruments  of  fallen  Tyranny 
In  their  own  annals,  by  their  countrymen. 
For  lasting  shame  shall  they  be  written  down. 
Soon  may  the  better  Genius  there  prevail ! 
Then  will  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 
The  thunderbolt  aside, 


THE   FIGHT   OF   THE   ARMSTRONG   PRIVATEER 


And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown. 
Rest  in  the  Bower  of  Peace. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


One  of  the  most  remarkable  naval  battles  of 
the  war  occurred  on  September  26,  1814,  in  Fayal 
Roads.  The  General  Armstrong,  the  famous  pri 
vateer  schooner,  Captain  Samuel  Chester  Reid,  had 
anchored  there,  trusting  to  the  neutrality  of  the 
harbor,  and  was  attacked  after  nightfall  by  the 
boats  of  a  strong  British  squadron.  A  fearful 
struggle  followed,  the  British  being  finally  beaten 
off. 

REID  AT  FAYAL 

[September  26,  1814] 

A  CLIFF-LOCKED  port  and  a  bluff  sea  wall, 
And  a  craggy  rampart,  brown  and  bold ; 

Proud  Pico's  bastions  towering  tall, 
And  a  castle  dumb  and  cold. 

The  scream  of  a  gull  where  a  porpoise  rolls; 
And  the  flash  of   a   home-bound  fisher's 

blade, 
Where  the  ghostly  boom  of   the  drumfish 

tolls 
For  wrecks  that  the  surf  has  made. 

A  grim  dun  ridge,  and  a  thin  gray  beach, 
And  the  swish  and  the  swash  of  the  sleep 
less  tide; 
And  the  moonlight  masking  the  reef's  long 

reach, 
Where  the  lurking  breakers  bide. 

And  under  the  castle's  senseless  walls 
(Santa  Cruz,  old  and  cold  and  dumb), 

Where  only  the  prying  sea-mew  calls, 
And  the  harbor  beetles  hum, 

A  Yankee  craft  at  her  cable  swings: 
"All's  well!"  the  cheery  lookout  sings. 
But  the  skipper  counts  his  sleeping  crew, 
His  guns,  and  his  drowsy  ensign,  too. 

—  Says  he,  "They'll  do!" 

For  the  skipper  marks,  tho'  he  makes  no 

sign, 

Frigate  and  corvette  and  ship  of  the  line, 
Rounding  the  headland  into  the  light: 
"  Three  Union  Jacks  and  a  moonlight  night ! " 

—  Says  he,  "We'll  fight!" 

Twelve  launches  cutting  the  silver  bay; 
Twenty  score  boarders  called  away. 


And  it's  "Lively,  hearties,  and  let  her  go!" 
With  a  rouse  and  a  cheer  and  a  "  Yeo,  ho,  ho ! " 

—  Says  Reid,  "  Lie  low ! " 

'T  is  a  song  of  havoc  the  rowlocks  sing, 
And  Death  marks  time  in  the  rower's  swing; 
'T  is  a  baleful  glow  on  the  spouting  spray, 
As  the  keels  in  their  cruel  lust  make  way. 
"Now,  up  and  slay!" 

Now  up  and  play  in  the  mad  old  game  — 
Axe  and  cutlass,  fury  and  flame! 
White  breasts  red-wat  in  the  viler  muck, 
Proud  hearts  hurled  back  in  the  sprawling 
ruck. 

—  Says  Reid,  "Well  struck!" 

Pike  and  pistol  and  dripping  blade 
(So  are  the  ghosts  and  the  glory  made) ; 
A  curse  for  a  groan,  and  a  cheer  for  a  yell; 
Pale  glut  of  Hate  and  red  rapture  of  Hell! 

—  Says  Reid,  "All's  well!" 

All 's  well  for  the  banner  that  dances  free, 
Where  the  mountains  are  shouting  the  news 

to  the  sea. 
All's  well  for  the  bold,  and  all's  ill  for  the 

strong, 
In  the  fight  and  the  flight  that  shall  hold  us 

long, 
In  tale  and  song. 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 


THE  FIGHT  OF  THE  ARMSTRONG 
PRIVATEER 

TELL  the  story  to  your  sons 

Of  the  gallant  days  of  yore, 
When  the  brig  of  seven  guns 

Fought  the  fleet  of  seven  score, 
From  the  set  of  sun  till  morn,  through  the 

long  September  night  — 
Ninety  men  against  two  thousand,  and  the 

ninety  won  the  fight 
In  the  harbor  of  Fayal  the  Azore. 

Three  lofty  British  ships  came  a-sailing  to 

Fayal : 
One  was  a  line-of-battle  ship,  and  two  were 

frigates  tall; 
Nelson's  valiant  men  of  war,  brave  as  Britons 

ever  are, 
Manned  the  guns  they  served  so  well  at  Abou- 

kir  and  Trafalgar. 


320 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Lord  Dundonald  and  his  fleet  at  Jamaica  far 
away 

Waited  eager  for  their  coming,  fretted  sore  at 
their  delay. 

There  was  loot  for  British  valor  on  the  Mis 
sissippi  coast 

In  the  beauty  and  the  booty  that  the  Creole 
cities  boast; 

There  were  rebel  knaves  to  swing,  there  were 
prisoners  to  bring 

Home  in  fetters  to  old  England  for  the  glory 
of  the  King! 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun  and  the  ebbing  of 
the  tide 

Came  the  great  ships  one  by  one,  with  their 
portals  opened  wide, 

And  their  cannon  frowning  down  on  the 
castle  and  the  town 

And  the  privateer  that  lay  close  inside; 

Came  the  eighteen-gun  Carnation,  and  the 
Rota,  forty-four, 

And  the  triple-decked  Plantagenet  an  Ad 
miral's  pennon  bore; 

And  the  privateer  grew  smaller  as  their  top 
masts  towered  taller, 

And  she  bent  her  springs  and  anchored  by  the 
castle  on  the  shore. 

Spoke  the  noble  Portuguese  to  the  stranger: 

"Have  no  fear; 
They  are  neutral  waters  these,  and  your  ship 

is  sacred  here 
As  if  fifty  stout  armadas  to  shelter  you  from 

harm, 
For  the  honor  of  the  Briton  will  defend  you 

from  his  arm." 
But  the  privateersman  said,  "Well  we  know 

the  Englishmen, 
And  their  faith  is  written  red  in  the  Dartmoor 

slaughter-pen. 
Come  what  fortune  God  may  send,  we  will 

fight  them  to  the  end. 
And  the  mercy  of  the  sharks  may  spare  us 

then." 

"Seize  the  pirate  where  she  lies!"  cried  the 
English  Admiral: 

"If  the  Portuguese  protect  her,  all  the  worse 
for  Portugal!" 

And  four  launches  at  his  bidding  leaped  im 
patient  for  the  fray, 

Speeding  shoreward  where  the  Armstrong, 
grim  and  dark  and  ready,  lay. 


Twice  she  hailed  and  gave  them  warning; 
but  the  feeble  menace  scorning, 

On  they  came  in  splendid  silence,  till  a  cable's 
length  away. 

Then  the  Yankee  pivot  spoke;  Pico's  thou 
sand  echoes  woke; 

And  four  baffled,  beaten  launches  drifted 
helpless  on  the  bay. 

Then  the  wrath  of  Lloyd  arose  till  the  lion 

roared  again, 
And  he  called  out  all  his  launches  and  he 

called  five  hundred  men; 
And  he  gave  the  word  "No  quarter!"  and  he 

sent  them  forth  to  smite. 
Heaven  help  the  foe  before  him  when  the 

Briton  comes  in  might! 
Heaven  helped  the  little  Armstrong  in  her 

hour  of  bitter  need ; 
God  Almighty  nerved  the  heart  and  guided 

well  the  arm  of  Reid. 

Launches  to   port  and   starboard,   launches 

forward  and  aft, 
Fourteen  launches  together  striking  the  little 

craft. 
They  hacked  at  the  boarding-nettings,  they 

swarmed  above  the  rail; 
But  the  Long  Tom  roared  from  his  pivot  and 

the  grape-shot  fell  like  hail; 
Pike  and  pistol  and  cutlass,  and  hearts  that 

knew  not  fear, 
Bulwarks  of  brawn  and  mettle,  guarded  the 

privateer. 
And  ever  where  fight  was  fiercest  the  form  of 

Reid  was  seen: 
Ever  where  foes  drew  nearest,  his  quick  sword 

fell  between. 
Once  in  the  deadly  strife 

The  boarder's  leader  pressed 

Forward  of  all  the  rest 
Challenging  life  for  life; 

But  ere  their  blades  had  crossed 

A  dying  sailor  tossed 
His  pistol  to  Reid,  and  cried, 
"Now  riddle  the  lubber's  hide!" 
But  the  privateersman  laughed,  and  flung  the 

weapon  aside, 
And  he  drove  his  blade  to  the  hilt,  and  the 

foeman  gasped  and  died. 
Then  the  boarders  took  to  their  launches, 

laden  with  hurt  and  dead, 
But  little  with  glory  burdened,  and  out  of  the 

battle  fled. 


THE   ARMSTRONG   AT   FAYAL 


321 


Now  the  tide  was  at  flood  again,  and  the 

night  was  al:nost  done, 
When  the  sloop-of-war  came  up  with  her 

odds  of  two  to  one, 
And   she   opened   fire;    but   the  Armstrong 

answered  her,  gun  for  gun, 
And  the  gay  Carnation  wilted  in  half  an  hour 

of  sun. 

Then  the  Armstrong,  looking  seaward,  saw  the 

mighty  seventy-four, 
With  her  triple  tier  of  cannon,  drawing  slowly 

to  the  shore. 
And  the  dauntless  captain  said:  "Take  our 

wounded  and  our  dead, 
Bear  them  tenderly  to  land,  for  the  Arm 
strong's  days  are  o'er; 
But  no  foe  shall  tread  her  deck,  and  no  flag 

above  it  wave  — 
To  the  ship  that  saved  our  honor  we  will  give 

a  shipman's  grave." 
So  they  did   as   he   commanded,  and    they 

bore  their  mates  to  land 
With  the  figurehead  of  Armstrong  and  the 

good  sword  in  his  hand. 
Then  they  turned  the  Long  Tom  downward, 

and  they  pierced  her  oaken  side, 
And  they  cheered  her,  and  they  blessed  her, 

and  they  sunk  her  in  the  tide. 

Tell  the  story  to  your  sons, 

When  the  haughty  stranger  boasts 
Of  his  mighty  ships  and  guns 
And  the  muster  of  his  hosts, 
How  the  word  of  God  was  witnessed  in  the 

gallant  days  of  yore 
When  the  twenty  fled  from  one  ere  the  rising 

of  the  sun, 
In  the  harbor  of  Fayal  the  Azore! 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

Three  boats,  loaded  with  dead  and  dying,  were 
captured  by  the  Americans,  the  survivors  having 
escaped  by  jumping  overboard  and  swimming 
ashore.  At  daybreak  the  whole  British  fleet  moved 
in  to  attack,  and  Captain  Reid  was  forced  to 
scuttle  his  ship  and  abandon  her. 

THE  ARMSTRONG  AT  FAYAL 

[September  26,  1814] 

OH,  the  sun  sets  red,  the  moon  shines  white, 

And  blue  is  Fayal' s  dear  sky ; 
The  sun  and  moon  and  sky  are  bright, 

And  the  sea,  and  stars  on  high  ; 


But  the  name  of  Reid  and  the  fame  of  Reid 

And  the  flag  of  his  ship  and  crew 
Are  brighter  far  than  sea  or  star 

Or  the  heavens'  red,  white,  and  blue  : 
So  lift  your  voices  once  again 

For  the  land  we  love  so  dear, 
For  the  fighting  Captain  and  the  men 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer  I 

The  moonbeams,  like  fine  silver,  shine 

Upon  the  blue  Azores, 
As  twilight  pours  her  purple  wine 

Upon  those  storied  shores; 
The  General  Armstrong's  flag  of  stars 

In  the  harbor  of  Fayal 
Flies  forth,  remote  from  thought  of  wars 

Until  the  sunset  call. 

No  glistening  guns  in  serried  line 

The  slender  schooner  boasts, 
A  pivot  and  eight  hearty  nines 

Shall  meet  her  foeman's  hosts; 
Her  sides  are  oak,  her  masts  are  tall, 

Her  captain's  one  to  trust, 
Her  ninety  men  are  free  men  all, 

Her  quarrel  wholly  just. 

On  far  Fayal  the  moon  is  fair 

To-night  as  it  was  when, 
Glad  in  the  gay  September  air, 

Reid  laughed  beside  his  men; 
On  far  Fayal  the  -sun  to-day 

Was  lord  of  all  the  sky 
As  when  the  General  Armstrong  lay. 

Our  banner  flung  on  high; 
But  now  there  rests  a  holier  light 

Than  theirs  on  land  or  sea: 
The  splendor  of  our  sailors'  might, 

And  glorious  bravery. 

A  moment,  and  the  flag  will  sink 

As  sinks  the  sun  to  rest 
Beyond  the  billows'  western  brink 

Where  towers  the  Eagle's  nest, 
When  round  the  azure  harbor-head 

Where  sparkling  ocean  brims, 
Her  British  ensign  streaming  red, 

The  brig  Carnation  swims. 

Ere  with  the  sun  her  sails  are  set 

The  Rota  frigate  glides 
And  the  great  ship  Plantagenet 

To  stations  at  her  sides: 
They  carry  six  score  guns  and  ten, 

They  serve  the  British  crown, 


322 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


They  muster  o'er  a  thousand  men  — 
To  win  were  small  renown. 

'T  was  by  Fayal,  where  Portugal 

Still  flaunts  her  Blue-and-White ; 
What  cares  their  Floyd  for  Portugal 

Or  what  cares  he  for  right  ? 
He  starts  his  signals  down  the  line  — 

Our  flag  is  flying  free  — 
His  weapons  in  the  moonbeams  shine, 

His  boats  drop  on  the  sea. 
Straight  to  the  Armstrong  swift  they  come. 

Speak,  or  I  fire  !  shouts  Reid  — 
Their  rattling  rowlocks  louder  hum 

To  mark  their  heightened  speed. 

Fierce  o'er  their  moonlit  path  there  stream 

Bright  glares  of  crimson  flame; 
Our  muskets  but  an  instant  gleam, 

Yet  leave  them  wounded,  lame. 
They  try  a  feeble,  brief  reply 

Ere  back  their  course  is  sped. 
Before  our  marksmanship  they  fly, 

Their  living  with  their  dead. 

Floyd  swears  upon  his  faith  and  all 

The  Armstrong  shall  be  his; 
!He  scorns  rebuke  from  Portugal, 

But  not  such  enemies; 
So  guns  are  charged  with  canister 

And  picked  men  go  to  fight: 
Brave  hearts  and  doomed'  full  many  were 

In  the  Azores  that  night. 

'From  nine  until  the  nick  of  twelve 

Their  boats  are  seen  to  throng 
Where  rocky  islets  slant  and  shelve 

Safe  from  our  bullets'  song; 
Then  out  they  dash,  their  small  arms  flash, 

While  blare  their  carronades, 
Their  boarding-pikes  and  axes  clash, 

Their  guns  and  cutlass  blades. 
Our  Long  Tom  speaks,  our  shrapnel  shrieks ; 

But  ere  we  load  again, 
On  every  side  the  battle  reeks 

Of  thrice  a  hundred  men. 

Our  rail  is  low,  and  there  the  foe 

Cling  as  they  shoot  and  hack. 
We  stab  them  as  they  climb  a-row, 

Slaying,  nor  turning  back. 
They  dash  up  now  upon  our  bow, 

And  there  our  hearties  haste; 
Now  at  our  stern  their  muskets  burn, 

And  now  along  our  waist. 


Our  fo'c'sle  weeps  when  Williams  dies, 

When  Worth  falls  in  his  blood, 
But  bleeding  through  the  battle-cries 

Our  gallant  Johnson  stood; 
The  British  muskets  snapt  and  spat 

Till  Reid  came  in  his  wrath, 
His  brow  so  pale  with  purpose  that 

It  glistened  down  his  path. 

Forth  from  the  quarter-deck  he  springs, 

He  and  his  men  with  cheers; 
On  British  skulls  his  cutlass  rings, 

His  pistols  in  their  ears; 
His  men  beside  him  hold  him  good 

Till  spent  the  foeman's  breath; 
Where  at  our  sides  a  Briton  stood, 

A  Briton  sank  in  death; 
Though  weak  our  men  with  blood  and  sweat 

Our  sides  a  riddled  wreck. 
Yet  ne'er  a  British  foot  is  set 

Upon  the  Armstrong's  deck. 

Three  hundred  men  their  Admiral  sent 

Our  schooner's  ways  to  mend: 
A  hundred  British  sailors  went 

Down  to  a  warrior's  end. 
Two  of  our  lads  in  death  are  red, 

But  safe  the  flag  above: 
God  grant  that  never  worse  be  sped 

The  fray  for  all  we  love! 

The  General  Armstrong  lies  beneath 

The  waves  in  far  Fayal, 
But  still  his  countrymen  shall  wreathe 

Reid's  name  with  laurels  tall; 
The  sun  and  moon  are  fair  to  see 

Above  the  blue  Azores, 
But  fairer  far  Reid's  victory 

Beside  their  storied  shores. 

Oh,  the  sun  sets  red,  the  moon  shines  white.. 

And  blue  is  FayaTs  clear  sky  ; 
The  sun  and  moon  and  sky  are  bright, 

And  the  sea,  and  stars  on  high  ; 
But   the   name   of   Reid  and   the   fame    of 
Reid 

And  the  flag  of  his  ship  and  crew 
Are  brighter  jar  than  sea  or  star 

Or  the  heavens'  red,  white,  and  blue  : 
So  lift  your  voices  once  again 

For  the  land  we  love  so  dear, 
For  the  fighting  Captain  and  the  men 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 


323 


Major-General  Andrew  Jackson  had  been  in 
trusted  with  the  task  of  defending  the  South,  and 
especially  New  Orleans,  from  the  expected  British 
invasion.  On  September  15,  1814,  a  British  fleet 
and  land  force  invested  Fort  Bowyer,  which  com 
manded  the  entrance  to  Mobile,  but  were  beaten 
off  and  forced  to  retire,  after  a  desperate  struggle, 
in  which  one  of  the  British  ships  was  blown  up. 


FORT   BOWYER 

[September  15,  1814] 

WHERE  the  wild  wave,  from  ocean  proudly 

swelling, 
Mexico's   shores,   wide   stretching,   with   its 

billowy 
Surge,  in  its  sweep  laves,  and,  with  lashing 

foam,  breaks, 
Rough  in  its  whiteness; 

See  where  the  flag  of  Freedom,  with  its  light 

wreaths. 

Floats  on  the  wind,  in  buoyancy  expanded 
High  o'er  the  walls  of  Bowyer's  dauntless 

breastwork, 
Proudly  and  fearless. 

Loud  roll  thy  thunders,  Albion ;  and  thy  mis 
sile 

Boasts  throng  the  air  with   lightning  flash 
tremendous, 

Whilst   the  dark  wave,   illuminated   bright, 

shines 
Sparkling  with  death-lights. 

Shrink  then  that  band  of  freemen,  at  the  on 
slaught  ? 

Palsy   those  arms   that  wield   the  unerring 
rifles  ? 

Strikes  chill  the  breast  dread  fear  ?  or  coward 

paleness 
Whiten  the  blanch 'd  cheek? 

No!  round  that  flag,  undaunted,  midst  the 
loud  din, 

Like  their  own  shores,  which  mountain  surges 
move  not 

Breasted  and  firm,  and  heedless  of  the  war- 
shock, 
Rallying  they  stand  fast. 

"  Look,"  Lawrence  cries,  "  brave  comrades; 

how  the  foe  proud 
Quails  at  our  charge,  with  recreant  spirit 

flying:" 


Like  Rome's  bold  chief,  he  came  and  saw, 

but  neither 
Awed  us,  nor  conquer'd. 

CHARLES  L.  S.  JONES. 

Jackson  hastened  to  New  Orleans,  and  reached 
there  just  as  a  great  British  fleet  appeared  in 
the  offing.  He  determined  to  attack  the  enemy  as 
soon  as  they  started  to  land,  and  on  the  night  of 
December  23  he  drove  in  their  advance  guard. 
Then  he  intrenched  his  little  army,  and  on  Jan 
uary  8,  1815,  was  attacked  by  the  full  British 
force,  seven  thousand  strong.  Their  advance  was 
checked  by  the  steady  fire  of  Jackson's  riflemen, 
and  the  enemy  was  finally  routed  with  a  loss  of 
over  two  thousand.  The  American  loss  was  eight 
killed  and  thirteen  wounded. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

[January  8,  1815] 

HERE,  in  my  rude  log  cabin, 

Few  poorer  men  there  be 
Among  the  mountain  ranges 

Of  Eastern  Tennessee. 
My  limbs  are  weak  and  shrunken, 

White  hairs  upon  my  brow, 
My  dog  —  lie  still  old  fellow!  — 

My  sole  companion  now. 
Yet  I,  when  young  and  lusty, 

Have  gone  through  stirring  scenes. 
For  I  went  down  with  Carroll 

To  fight  at  New  Orleans. 

You  say  you  'd  like  to  hear  me 

The  stirring  story  tell, 
Of  those  who  stood  the  battle 

And  those  who  fighting  fell. 
Short  work  to  count  our  losses  — 

We  stood  and  dropped  the  foe 
As  easily  as  by  firelight 

Men  shoot  the  buck  or  doe. 
And  while  they  fell  by  hundreds 

Upon  the  bloody  plain, 
Of  us,  fourteen  were  wounded 

And  only  eight  were  slain. 

The  eighth  of  January, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
Our  raw  and  hasty  levies 

Were  brought  into  array. 
No  cotton-bales  before  us  — 

Some  fool  that  falsehood  told; 
Before  us  was  an  earthwork 

Built  from  the  swampy  mould 
And  there  we  stood  in  silence, 

And  waited  with  a  frown. 


324 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


To  greet  with  bloody  welcome 
The  bull-dogs  of  the  Crown. 

The  heavy  fog  of  morning 

Still  hid  the  plain  from  sight, 
When  came  a  thread  of  scarlet 

Marked  faintly  in  the  white. 
We  fired  a  single  cannon, 

And  as  its  thunders  rolled, 
The  mist  before  us  lifted 

In  many  a  heavy  fold  — 
The  mist  before  us  lifted 

And  in  their  bravery  fine 
Came  rushing  to  their  ruin 

The  fearless  British  line. 

Then  from  our  waiting  cannon 

Leaped  forth  the  deadly  flame, 
To  meet  the  advancing  columns 

That  swift  and  steady  came. 
The  thirty-twos  of  Crowley 

And  Bluohi's  twenty-four 
To  Spotts's  eighteen-pounders 

Responded  with  their  roar, 
Sending  the  grape-shot  deadly 

That  marked  its  pathway  plain, 
And  paved  the  road  it  travelled 

With  corpses  of  the  slain. 

Our  rifles  firmly  grasping, 

And  heedless  of  the  din, 
We  stood  in  silence  waiting 

For  orders  to  begin. 
Our  fingers  on  the  triggers, 

Our  hearts,  with  anger  stirred, 
Grew  still  more  fierce  and  eager 

As  Jackson's  voice  was  heard : 
"  Stand  steady!  Waste  no  powder! 

Wait  till  your  shots  will  tell ! 
To-day  the  work  you  finish  — 

See  that  you  do  it  well ! " 

Their  columns  drawing  nearer, 

We  felt  our  patience  tire, 
When  came  the  voice  of  Carroll, 

Distinct  and  measured,  "Fire!" 
Oh !  then  you  should  have  marked  us 

Our  volleys  on  them  pour  — 
Have  heard  our  joyous  rifles 

Ring  sharply  through  the  roar, 
And  seen  their  foremost  columns 

Melt  hastily  away 
As  snow  in  mountain  gorges 

Before  the  floods  of  May. 


They  soon  re-formed  their  columns, 

And,  mid  the  fatal  rain 
We  never  ceased  to  hurtle, 

Came  to  their  work  again. 
The  Forty-fourth  is  with  them, 

That  first  its  laurels  won 
With  stout  old  Abercrombie 

Beneath  an  eastern  sun. 
It  rushes  to  the  battle, 

And,  though  within  the  rear 
Its  leader  is  a  laggard, 

It  shows  no  signs  of  fear. 

It  did  not  need  its  colonel, 

For  soon  there  came  instead 
An  eagle-eyed  commander, 

And  on  its  march  he  led. 
'T  was  Pakenham  in  person, 

The  leader  of  the  field ; 
I  knew  it  by  the  cheering 

That  loudly  round  him  pealed; 
And  by  his  quick,  sharp  movement 

We  felt  his  heart  was  stirred, 
As  when  at  Salamanca 

He  led  the  fighting  Third. 

I  raised  my  rifle  quickly, 

I  sighted  at  his  breast, 
God  save  the  gallant  leader 

And  take  him  to  his  rest! 
I  did  not  draw  the  trigger, 

I  could  not  for  my  life. 
So  calm  he  sat  his  charger 

Amid  the  deadly  strife, 
That  in  my  fiercest  moment 

A  prayer  arose  from  me  — 
God  save  that  gallant  leader, 

Our  foeman  though  he  be! 

Sir  Edward's  charger  staggers; 

He  leaps  at  once  to  ground. 
And  ere  the  beast  falls  bleeding 

Another  horse  is  found. 
His  right  arm  falls  —  't  is  wounded ; 

He  waves  on  high  his  left; 
In  vain  he  leads  the  movement, 

The  ranks  in  twain  are  cleft. 
The  men  in  scarlet  waver 

Before  the  men  in  brown, 
And  fly  in  utter  panic  — 

The  soldiers  of  the  Crown! 

I  thought  the  work  was  over, 
But  nearer  shouts  were  heard, 


JACKSON  AT  NEW  ORLEANS 


325 


And  came,  with  Gibbs  to  head  it. 

The  gallant  Ninety-third. 
Then  Pakenham,  exulting, 

With  proud  and  joyous  glance, 
Cried,  "Children  of  the  tartan  — 

Bold  Highlanders  —  advance ! 
Advance  to  scale  the  breastworks, 

And  drive  them  from  their  hold, 
And  show  the  stainless  courage 

That  marked  your  sires  of  old!" 

His  voice  as  yet  was  ringing, 

When,  quick  as  light,  there  came 
The  roaring  of  a  cannon, 

And  earth  seemed  all  aflame. 
Who  causes  thus  the  thunder 

The  doom  of  men  to  speak  ? 
It  is  the  Baratarian, 

The  fearless  Dominique. 
Down  through  the  marshalled  Scotsmen 

The  step  of  death  is  heard, 
And  by  the  fierce  tornado 

Falls  half  the  Ninety-third. 

The  smoke  passed  slowly  upward 

And,  as  it  soared  on  high, 
I  saw  the  brave  commander 

In  dying  anguish  lie. 
They  bear  him  from  the  battle 

Who  never  fled  the  foe; 
Unmoved  by  death  around  them 

His  bearers  softly  go. 
In  vain  their  care,  so  gentle, 

Fades  earth  and  all  its  scenes; 
The  man  of  Salamanca 

Lies  dead  at  New  Orleans. 

But  where  were  his  lieutenants  ? 

Had  they  in  terror  fled  ? 
No!   Keane  was  sorely  wounded 

And  Gibbs  as  good  as  dead. 
Brave  Wilkinson  commanding, 

A  major  of  brigade, 
The  shattered  force  to  rally 

A  final  effort  made. 
He  led  it  up  our  ramparts, 

Small  glory  did  he  gain  — 
Our  captives  some;  some  slaughtered, 

And  he  himself  was  slain. 

The  stormers  had  retreated, 

The  bloody  work  was  o'er; 
The  feet  of  the  invaders 

Were  soon  to  leave  our  shore. 


We  rested  on  our  rifles 

And  talked  about  the  fight, 
When  came  a  sudden  murmur 

Like  fire  from  left  to  right; 
We  turned  and  saw  our  chieftain, 

And  then,  good  friend  of  mine, 
You  should  have  heard  the  cheering 

That  rang  along  the  line. 

For  well  our  men  remembered 

How  little,  when  they  came, 
Had  they  but  native  courage, 

And  trust  in  Jackson's  name; 
How  through  the  day  he  labored, 

How  kept  the  vigils  still, 
Till  discipline  controlled  us  — 

A  stronger  power  than  will; 
And  how  he  hurled  us  at  them 

Within  the  evening  hour, 
That  red  night  in  December 

And  made  us  feel  our  power. 

In  answer  to  our  shouting 

Fire  lit  his  eye  of  gray; 
Erect,  but  thin  and  pallid, 

He  passed  upon  his  bay. 
WTeak  from  the  baffled  fever, 

And  shrunken  in  each  limb, 
The  swamps  of  Alabama 

Had  done  their  work  on  him; 
But  spite  of  that  and  fasting, 

And  hours  of  sleepless  care, 
The  soul  of  Andrew  Jackson 

Shone  forth  in  glory  there. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


JACKSON  AT  NEW  ORLEANS 

HEAR  through  the  morning  drums  and  trum 
pets  sounding, 

Rumbling  of  cannon,  tramp  of  mighty  armies ; 
Then  the  mist  sunders,  all  the  plain  disclosing 
Scarlet  for  England. 

Batteries  roll  on,  halt,  and  flashing  lightnings 
Search  out  our  earthworks,  silent  and  por 
tentous. 

Fierce  on  our  right  with  crimson  banners  toss 
ing 

Their  lines  spring  forward. 

Lanyards  in  hand,  Americans  and  seamen, 
Gunners  from  warships,  Lafitte's  privateers- 
men, 


326 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Roar  out  our  thunders  till  the  grape  and 
shrapnel 

Shriek  through  their  columns. 

Shattered  in  fragments,  thus  their  right  is 

riven; 

But  on  our  left  a  deadlier  bolt  is  speeding: 
Wellesley's  Peninsulars,  never  yet  defeated, 
Charge  m  their  valor. 

Closing  their  files,  our  cannon  fire  disdaining, 
Dauntless   they  come  with  vict'ry  oa  their 

standards ; 

Then  slowly  rise  the  rifles  of  our  marksmen, 
Tennessee  hunters. 

Cradles  of  flame  and  scythes  of  whistling 

bullets 

Lay  them  in  windrows,  war's  infernal  harvest. 
High   through   the   onslaught  Tennessee   is 

shouting, 

Joying  in  battle. 

Pakenham  falls  there,  Keane  and  his  High 
landers 

Close  from  the  centre,  hopeless  in  their  cour 
age; 

Backward  they  stagger,  dying  and  disabled, 
Gloriously  routed. 

Stilled    are  our  rifles   as  our  cheers    grow 

louder: 

War  clouds  sweep  back  in  January  breezes. 
Showing  the  dreadful  proof  of  the  great  tri 
umph 

God  hath  vouchsafed  us. 

That  gallant  war-host,  England's  best  and 
bravest, 

Met  by  raw  levies,  scores  against  its  hun 
dreds, 

Lies  at  our  feet,  a  thing  for  woman's  weeping, 
Reddening  the  meadows. 

Freed  are  our  States  from  European  tyrants : 
Lift  then  your  voices  for  the  little  army 
Led  by  our  battle-loving  Andrew  Jackson, 
Blest  of  Jehovah. 

WALLACE  RICE. 

The  British  were  permitted  to  retire  unmolested 
to  their  ships,  and  the  sails  of  that  mighty  fleet 
were  soon  fading  away  along  the  horizon.  Neither 
victor  nor  vanquished  knew  that  a  treaty  of  peace 
had  been  signed  at  Ghent  two  weeks  before,  and 
that  the  battle  need  never  have  been  fought. 


TO  THE  DEFENDERS  OF  NEW 
ORLEANS 

HAIL  sons  of  generous  valor, 

Who  now  embattled  stand, 
To  wield  the  brand  of  strife  and  blood, 

For  Freedom  and  the  land. 
And  hail  to  him  your  laurelled  chief, 

Around  whose  trophied  name 
A  nation's  gratitude  has  twined 

The  wreath  of  deathless  fame. 

Now  round  that  gallant  leader 

Your  iron  phalanx  form, 
And  throw,  like  Ocean's  barrier  rocks, 

Your  bosoms  to  the  storm. 
Though  wild  as  Ocean's  wave  it  rolls, 

Its  fury  shall  be  low, 
For  justice  guides  the  warrior's  steel, 

And  vengeance  strikes  the  blow. 

High  o'er  the  gleaming  columns, 

The  bannered  star  appears, 
And  proud  amid  its  martial  band, 

His  crest  the  eagle  rears. 
And  long  as  patriot  valor's  arm 

Shall  win  the  battle's  prize, 
That  star  shall  beam  triumphantly, 

That  eagle  seek  the  skies. 

Then  on,  ye  daring  spirits, 

To  danger's  tumults  now, 
The  bowl  is  filled  and  wreathed  the  crown, 

To  grace  the  victor's  brow; 
And  they  who  for  their  country  die, 

Shall  fill  an  honored  grave. 
For  glory  lights  the  soldier's  tomb, 

And  beauty  weeps  the  brave. 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


Prominent  among  the  forces  under  Jackson  was 
a  brigade  of  eight  hundred  Kentucky  riflemen, 
commanded  by  General  John  Coffee.  They  had 
marched  eight  hundred  miles  through  a  wilderness, 
having  covered  the  last  hundred  miles  in  less  than 
two  days  —  a  march  almost  unequalled  in  history. 
Jackson  spoke  of  this  brigade  as  the  right  arm  of 
his  army. 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  KENTUCKY 

YE  gentlemen  and  ladies  fair, 
Who  grace  this  famous  city, 

Just  listen,  if  you  've  time  to  spare, 
While  I  rehearse  a  ditty; 


THE   CONSTITUTION'S   LAST   FIGHT 


327 


And  for  the  opportunity 

Conceive  yourselves  quite  lucky, 
For  't  is  but  seldom  that  you  see 
A  hunter  from  Kentucky. 

Oh !   Kentucky, 
The  hunters  of  Kentucky. 

We  are  a  hardy  free-born  race, 

Each  man  to  fear  a  stranger; 
Whate'er  the  game,  we  join  in  chase, 

Despising  toil  and  danger: 
And  if  a  daring  foe  annoys, 

Whate'er  his  strength  or  force  is, 
We'll  show  him  that  Kentucky  boys 

Are  Alligator-horses. 

I  s'pose  you've  read  it  in  the  prints, 

How  Pakenham  attempted 
To  make  old  Hickory  Jackson  wince, 

But  soon  his  schemes  repented; 
For  we,  with  rifles  ready  cock'd, 

Thought  such  occasion  lucky, 
And  soon  around  the  general  flock'd 

The  hunters  of  Kentucky. 

I  s'pose  you've  heard  how  New  Orleans 

Is  famed  for  wealth  and  beauty; 
They've  gals  of  every  hue,  it  seems, 

From  snowy  white  to  sooty: 
So  Pakenham  he  made  his  brags 

If  he  in  fight  was  lucky, 
He'd  have  their  gals  and  cotton  bags, 

In  spite  of  Old  Kentucky. 

But  Jackson  he  was  wide  awake, 

And  was  n't  scared  at  trifles, 
For  well  he  knew  what  aim  we  take 

With  our  Kentucky  rifles; 
So  he  led  us  down  to  Cypress  Swamp, 

The  ground  was  low  and  mucky; 
There  stood  John  Bull  in  martial  pomp  - 

But  here  was  Old  Kentucky. 

We  raised  a  bank  to  hide  our  breasts, 

Not  that  we  thought  of  dying, 
But  then  we  always  like  to  rest, 

Unless  the  game  is  flying: 
Behind  it  stood  our  little  force  — 

None  wish'd  it  to  be  greater. 
For  every  man  was  half  a  horse 

And  half  an  alligator. 

They  did  n't  let  our  patience  tire 
Before  they  sl.ovv'd  their  faces; 


We  did  n't  choose  to  waste  our  fire. 

But  snugly  kept  our  places; 
And  when  so  near  we  saw  them  wink, 

We  thought  it  time  to  stop  'em, 
It  would  have  done  you  good,  I  think, 

To  see  Kentuckians  drop  'em. 

They  found,  at  length,  't  was  vain  to  fight, 

When  lead  was  all  their  booty, 
And  so  they  wisely  took  to  flight, 

And  left  us  all  the  beauty. 
And  now,  if  danger  e'er  annoys, 

Remember  what  our  trade  is; 
Just  send  for  us  Kentucky  boys, 

And  we'll  protect  you,  ladies: 

Oh!  Kentucky, 
The  hunters  of  Kentucky. 


Another  useless  action,  but  a  most  remarkable 
one,  was  fought  by  the  famous  old  Constitution, 
near  Madeira,  on  February  20,  1815.  On  the  after 
noon  of  that  day  she  sighted  and  overhauled  the 
British  32-gun  frigate  Cyane  and  the  20-gun  ploop 
Levant.  She  attacked  them  simultaneously,  and 
after  a  fierce  fight  compelled  them  both  to  sur 
render. 


THE  CONSTITUTION'S  LAST  FIGHT 

[February  20,  1815] 

A  YANKEE  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  — 
Constitution,  where  ye  bound  for  ? 

Wherever,  my  lad,  there's  fight  to  be  had 
Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

Our  captain  was  married  in  Boston  town 

And  sailed  next  day  to  sea; 
For  all  must  go  when  the  State  says  so; 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  sailed  we. 

"Now,  what  shall  I  bring  for  a  bridal  gift 
When  my  home-bound  pennant  flies? 

The  rarest  that  be  on  land  or  sea 
It  shall  be  my  lady's  prize." 

"There's  never  a  prize  on  sea  or  land 

Could  bring  such  joy  to  me 
As  my  true  love  sound  and  homeward  bound 

With  a  king's  ship  under  his  lee." 

The  Western  ocean  is  wide  and  deep, 

And  wild  its  tempests  blow, 
But  bravely  rides  "Old  Ironsides," 

A-cruising  to  and  fro. 


328 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


We  cruised  to  the  east  and  we  cruised  to  north, 

And  southing  far  went  we, 
And  at  last  off  Cape  de  Verd  we  raised 

Two  frigates  sailing  free. 

Oh,  God  made  man,  and  man  made  ships, 

But  God  makes  very  few 
Like  him  who  sailed  our  ship  that  day, 

And  fought  her,  one  to  two. 

He  gained  the  weather-gage  of  both, 

He  held  them  both  a-lee; 
And  gun  for  gun,  till  set  of  sun, 

He  spoke  them  fair  and  free; 

Till  the  night-fog  fell  on  spar  and  sail, 

And  ship,  and  sea,  and  shore, 
And  our  only  aim  was  the  bursting  flame 

And  the  hidden  cannon's  roar. 

Then  a  long  rift  in  the  mist  showed  up 

The  stout  Cyane,  close-hauled 
To  swing  in  our  wake  and  our  quarter  rake, 

And  a  boasting  Briton  bawled: 

"Starboard  and  larboard,  we've  got  him  fast 
Where  his  heels  won't  take  him  through; 

Let  him  luff  or  wear,  he'll  find  us  there,  — 
Ho,  Yankee,  which  will  you  do?" 

We  did  not  luff  and  we  did  not  wear, 

But  braced  our  topsails  back, 
Till  the  sternway  drew  us  fair  and  true 

Broadsides  athwart  her  track. 

Athwart  her  track  and  across  her  bows 

We  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 
And  out  of  the  fight  and  into  the  night 

Drifted  the  beaten  craft. 

The  slow  Levant  came  up  too  late; 

No  need  had  we  to  stir; 
Her  decks  we  swept  with  fire,  and  kept 

The  flies  from  troubling  her. 

We  raked   her  again,   and   her  flag  came 
down,  — 

The  haughtiest  flag  that  floats,  — 
And  the  lime-juice  dogs  lay  there  like  logs, 

With  never  a  bark  in  their  throats. 

With  never  a  bark  and  never  a  bite, 

But  only  an  oath  to  break, 
As  we  squared  away  for  Praya  Bay 

With  our  prizes  in  our  wake. 


Parole  they  gave  and  parole  they  broke, 
What  matters  the  cowardly  cheat, 

If  the  captain's  bride  was  satisfied 
With  the  one  prize  laid  at  her  feet  ? 

A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  — 

Constitution,  where  ye  bound  for  ? 
Wherever  the  British  prizes  be, 
Though  it's  one  to  two,  or  one  to  three, 
"Old  Ironsides"  means  victory, 
Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


News  of  the  peace  did  not  reach  America  until 
February  11,  1815.  It  was  hailed  with  rejoicing 
everywhere. 


SEA   AND   LAND   VICTORIES 

WITH  half  the  Western  world  at  stake, 
See  Perry  on  the  midland  lake, 

The  unequal  combat  dare; 
Unawed  by  vastly  stronger  pow'rs, 
He  met  the  foe  and  made  him  ours, 

And  closed  the  savage  war. 

Macdonough,  too,  on  Lake  Champlain, 
In  ships  outnumbered,  guns,  and  men, 

Saw  dangers  thick  increase; 
His  trust  in  God  and  virtue's  cause 
He  conquer'd  in  the  lion's  jaws, 

And  led  the  way  to  peace. 

To  sing  each  valiant  hero's  name 

Whose  deeds  have  swelled  the  files  of  fame, 

Requires  immortal  powers; 
Columbia's  warriors  never  yield 
To  equal  force  by  sea  or  field, 

Her  eagle  never  cowers. 

Long  as  Niagara's  cataract  roars 
Or  Erie  laves  our  Northern  shores, 

Great  Brown,  thy  fame  shall  rise; 
Outnumber'd  by  a  veteran  host 
Of  conquering  heroes,  Britain's  boast  — 

Conquest  was  there  thy  prize. 

At  Plattsburg,  see  the  Spartan  band, 
Where  gallant  Macomb  held  command, 

The  unequal  host  oppose; 
Provost  confounded,  vanquished  flies. 
Convinced  that  numbers  won't  suffice 

Where  Freemen  are  the  foes. 


THE   SETTLER 


329 


Our  songs  to  noblest  strains  we'll  raise 
While  we  attempt  thy  matchless  praise, 

Carolina's  godlike  son; 
While  Mississippi  rolls  his  flood, 
Or  Freemen's  hearts  move  patriots'  blood, 

The  palm  shall  be  thine  own. 

At  Orleans  —  lo !  a  savage  band, 

In  countless  numbers  gain  the  strand, 

"  Beauty  and  spoil "  the  word  — 
There  Jackson  with  his  fearless  few, 
The  invincibles  by  thousands  slew, 

And  dire  destruction  poured. 

O  Britain!  when  the  tale  is  told 

Of  Jackson's  deeds  by  fame  enrolled, 

Should  grief  and  madness  rise, 
Itemember  God,  the  avenger,  reigns, 
Who  witnessed  Havre's  smoking  plains, 

And  Hampton's  female  cries. 


ODE  TO   PEACE 

OH  !  breathe  upon  this  hapless  world, 
And  bid  our  pains  and  sorrows  cease; 

Broad  be  thy  snowy  flag  unfurl'd, 
And  may  we  hail  thy  coming,  peace! 

For  long  enough  has  ruin  stalk'd, 
With  force  and  terror  o'er  our  earth; 

Around  them  hideous  spectres  walk'd, 
And  evil  nurs'd  bis  monstrous  birth. 


Ah!  banish 'd  from  these  happy  skies, 
By  thee,  be  soon  these  boding  stars, 

Which  erring  made  mankind  arise, 
To  deeds  of  sin,  to  blood  and  wars. 

Philadelphia,  1816. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE   WEST 


At  the  close  of  the  Revolution,  the  country 
west  of  the  Alleghanies  was  still  virtually  an  un 
broken  wilderness.  Boone  had  pushed  forward 
into  Kentucky,  drawing  a  few  settlers  after  him; 
the  trading-posts  in  the  Illinois  country,  which 
had  been  captured  by  George  Rogers  Clark,  still 
dragged  on  a  miserable  existence;  but  these  were 
mere  pin-points  in  the  great  stretches  of  virgin 
forest,  amid  which  the  first  settlers  hewed  out  a 
home. 

THE   SETTLER 

His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And,    rushing,    thundering,   down    were 
flung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood; 
Loud  shrieked  the  eagle,  as  he  dashed 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crashed 

With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolf's  haunt  below. 

Rude  was  the  garb  and  strong  the  frame 
Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil: 

To  form  that  garb  the  wild  wood  game 
Contributed  their  spoil; 


The   soul   that  warmed   that  frame  dis 
dained 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare  that  reigned 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimmed,  unstained, 

This  forest-tamer  decked. 


The   paths   which   wound    mid   gorgeous 
trees, 

The   stream   whose   bright  lips   kissed 

their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swelled  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast,  the  green  arcade, 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave,  and  swampy  lair; 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

His  roof  adorned  a  pleasant  spot; 
Mid   the  black   logs  green  glowed  the 

grain, 
And    herbs    and    plants    the   woods    knew 

not 
Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 


33° 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low,  the  bleat,  the  tinkling  bell, 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

The  violet  sprung  at  spring's  first  tinge, 

The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  glow, 
The  maize  hung  out  its  autumn  fringe, 

Rude  winter  brought  his  snow; 
And  still  the  lone  one  labored  there, 
His  shout  and  whistle  broke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden-spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

He  marked  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path, 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath; 
He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot, 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  severed  root, 

Hurled  whizzing  on  its  way. 

His  gaunt  hound  yelled,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hushed  his  savage  growl; 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnashed 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flyin^bound, 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground, 

And,  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sunk  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 

Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

When  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Wrho  thronged  in  conflict's  deadliest  place, 

To  fight,  —  to  bleed,  —  to  die ! 
Who  cumbered  Bunker's  height  of  red, 
By  hope  through  weary  years  were  led, 

And  witnessed  Yorktown's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won. 

ALFRED  B.  STREET. 


Danger  was  ever  present  —  and  in  its  most 
hideous  form.  Northwest  of  tlie  Ohio  dwelt  the 
powerful  Delawares  and  Shawanese,  ever  ready 
to  inarch  against  the  border  settlements  and  to 
surprise  isolated  dwellings.  In  the  incessant  war 
fare  against  the  Indians,  the  frontier  women 
played  no  little  part. 


THE   MOTHERS  OF  THE  WEST 

THE  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land! 

Stout-hearted  dames  were  they; 
With  nerve  to  wield  the  battle-brand, 

And  join  the  border-fray. 
Our  rough  land  had  no  braver, 

In  its  days  of  blood  and  strife  — 
Aye  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

On  old  Kan-tuc-kee's  soil, 
How  shared  they,  with  each  dauntless  band, 

War's  tempest  and  Life's  toil ! 
They  shrank  not  from  the  foeman,  — 

They  quailed  not  in  the  fight,  — 
But   cheered    their    husbands    through   the 
day, 

And  soothed  them  through  the  night. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land! 

Their  bosoms  pillowed  men  ! 
And  proud  were  they  by  such  to  stand, 

In  hammock,  fort,  or  glen. 
To  load  the  sure  old  rifle,  — 

To  run  the  leaden  ball,  — 
To  watch  a  battling  husband's  place. 

And  fill  it  should  he  fall. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Such  were  their  daily  deeds. 
Their  monument !  —  where  does  it  stand  ? 

Their  epitaph  !  —  who  reads  ? 
No  braver  dames  had  Sparta, 

No  nobler  matrons  Rome,  — 
Yet  who  or  lauds  or  honors  them, 

E'en  in  their  own  green  home! 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

They  sleep  in  unknown  graves: 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves, 
They  had  not  been  more  neglected! 

But  their  graves  shall  yet  be  found, 
And  their  monuments  dot  here  and  there 

"The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground." 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 

In  1 784  Virginia  ceded  to  the  national  govern 
ment  her  claim  to  the  lands  west  of  the  moun 
tains.  New  York,  Massachusetts,  and  Connecticut 
soon  followed  suit,  and  the  tide  of  emigration  to 
the  We&t  set  in  with  steady  and  ever-increasin« 
volume. 


JOHN  FILSON 


ON  THE  EMIGRATION  TO  AMERICA 
AND  PEOPLING  THE  WESTERN 
COUNTRY 

[1784] 

To  western  woods  and  lonely  plains, 
Palemon  from  the  crowd  departs, 
Where  Nature's  wildest  genius  reigns, 
To  tame  the  soil,  and  plant  the  arts  — 
What  wonders  there  shall  freedom  show, 
What  mighty  states  successive  grow ! 

From  Europe's  proud,  despotic  shores 
Hither  the  stranger  takes  his  way. 
And  in  our  new-found  world  explores 
A  happier  soil,  a  milder  sway, 
Where  no  proud  despot  holds  him  down, 
No  slaves  insult  him  with  a  crown. 

What  charming  scenes  attract  the  eye, 
On  wild  Ohio's  savage  stream! 
There  Nature  reigns,  whose  works  outvie 
The  boldest  pattern  art  can  frame; 
There  ages  past  have  rolled  away, 
And  forests  bloomed  but  to  decay. 

From  these  fair  plains,  these  rural  seats, 
So  long  concealed,  so  lately  known, 
The  unsocial  Indian  far  retreats, 
To  make  some  other  clime  his  own, 
Where  other  streams,  less  pleasing,  flow, 
And  darker  forests  round  him  grow. 

Great  Sire  of  floods!   whose  varied  wave 
Through    climes    and    countries    takes    its 

way, 

To  whom  creating  Nature  gave 
Ten  thousand  streams  to  swell  thy  sway! 
No  longer  shall  they  useless  prove, 
Nor  idly  through  the  forests  rove; 

Nor  longer  shall  your  princely  flood 
From  distant  lakes  be  swelled  in  vain, 
Nor  longer  through  a  darksome  wood 
Advance  unnoticed  to  the  main; 
Far  other  ends  the  heavens  decree  — 
And  commerce  plans  new  freights  for  thee. 

While  virtue  warms  the  generous  breast, 
There  heaven-born  freedom  shall  reside, 
Nor  shall  the  voice  of  war  molest, 
Nor  Europe's  all-aspiring  pride  — 
There  Reason  shall  new  laws  devise. 
And  order  from  confusion  rise. 


Forsaking  kings  and  regal  state, 
With  all  their  pomp  and  fancied  bliss, 
The  traveller  owns,  convinced  though  late, 
No  realm  so  free,  so  blest  as  this  — 
The  east  is  half  to  slaves  consigned, 
Where  kings  and  priests  enchain  the  mind. 

O  come  the  time,  and  haste  the  day, 
When  man  shall  man  no  longer  crush, 
When  Reason  shall  enforce  her  sway, 
Nor  these  fair  regions  raise  our  blush, 
Where  still  the  African  complains, 
And  mourns  his  yet  unbroken  chains. 

Far  brighter  scenes  a  future  age. 
The  muse  predicts,  these  States  will  hail, 
Whose  genius  may  the  world  engage, 
Whose  deeds  may  over  death  prevail, 
And  happier  systems  bring  to  view 
Than  all  the  eastern  sages  knew. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 


In  1788  Marietta  was  founded  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Muskingum  by  the  Ohio  Company,  which' had 
bought  a  great  tract  of  land  extending  to  tho 
Scioto.  Later  in  the  dame  year,  Matthias  Denman, 
Robert  Patterson,  and  John  Filson  laid  out  the 
town  of  Losantiville,  now  Cincinnati.  Filson  had 
been  a  schoolmaster  and  was  responsible  for  the 
strange  name,  which  he  thought  indicated  that  the 
town  was  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  Licking.  He 
was  soon  afterwards  killed  by  the  Indians  while 
on  an  exploring  expedition. 

JOHN  FILSON 

[1788] 

JOHN  FILSON  was  a  pedagogue  — 

A  pioneer  was  he; 
I  know  not  what  his  nation  was,  • 

Nor  what  his  pedigree. 

Tradition's  scanty  records  tell 

But  little  of  the  man, 
Save  that  he  to  the  frontier  came 

In  immigration's  van. 

Perhaps  with  phantoms  of  reform 

His  busy  fancy  teemed, 
Perhaps  of  new  Utopias 

Hesperian  he  dreamed. 

John  Filson  and  companions  bold 

A  frontier  village  planned, 
In  forest  wild,  on  sloping  hills, 

By  fair  Ohio's  strand. 


332 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


John  Filson  from  three  languages 

With  pedant  skill  did  frame 
The  novel  word  Losantiville 

To  be  the  new  town's  name. 

Said  Filson:   "Comrades,  hear  my  words: 
Ere  threescore  years  have  flown 

Our  town  will  be  a  city  vast." 
Loud  laughed  Bob  Patterson. 

Still  John  exclaimed,  with  prophet-tongue, 

"A  city  fair  and  proud, 
The  Queen  of  Cities  in  the  West!" 

Mat  Denman  laughed  aloud. 

Deep  in  the  wild  and  solemn  woods 
Unknown  to  white  man's  track, 

John  Filson  went,  one  autumn  day, 
But  nevermore  came  back. 

He  struggled  through  the  solitude 

The  inland  to  explore, 
And  with  romantic  pleasure  traced 

Miami's  winding  shore. 

Across  his  path  the  startled  deer 

Bounds  to  its  shelter  green; 
He  enters  every  lonely  vale 

And  cavernous  ravine. 

Too  soon  the  murky  twilight  comes, 
The  boding  night-winds  moan; 

Bewildered  wanders  Filson,  lost, 
Exhausted,  and  alone. 

By  lurking  foes  his  steps  are  dogged, 

A  yell  his  ear  appalls'. 
A  ghastly  corpse,  upon  the  ground, 

A  murdered  man,  he  falls. 

The  Indian,  with  instinctive  hate, 

In  him  a  herald  saw 
Of  coming  hosts  of  pioneers. 

The  friends  of  light  and  law; 

In  him  beheld  the  champion 

Of  industries  and  arts, 
The  founder  of  encroaching  roads 

And  great  commercial  marts; 

The  spoiler  of  the  hunting-ground, 

The  plougher  of  the  sod, 
The  builder  of  the  Christian  school 

And  of  the  house  of  God. 


And  so  the  vengeful  tomahawk 
John  Filson's  blood  did  spill,  — 

The  spirit  of  the  pedagogue 
No  tomahawk  could  kilL 

0 
John  Filson  had  no  sepulchre, 

Except  the  wildwood  dim; 
The  mournful  voices  of  the  air 

Made  requiem  for  him. 

The  druid  trees  their  waving  arms 

Uplifted  o'er  his  head; 
The  moon  a  pallid  veil  of  light 

Upon  his  visage  spread. 

The  rain  and  sun  of  many  years 
Have  worn  his  bones  away, 

And  what  he  vaguely  prophesied 
We  realize  to-day. 

Losantiville,  the  prophet's  word, 

The  poet's  hope  fulfils,  — 
She  sits  a  stately  Queen  to-day 

Amid  her  royal  hills! 

Then  come,  ye  pedagogues,  and  join 

To  sing  a  grateful  lay 
For  him,  the  martyr  pioneer, 

Who  led  for  you  the  way. 

And  may  my  simple  ballad  be 

A  monument  to  save 
His  name  from  blank  oblivion, 

WTho  never  had  a  grave. 

WILLIAM  HENBY  VENABLE. 

These  pioneers  found  the  land  northwest  of  the 
Ohio  remarkably  fertile;  but  it  was  the  hunting- 
ground  of  the  warlike  Delawares  and  Shawanese, 
and  the  man  who  attempted  to  settle  there  took 
his  life  in  his  hands.  In  the  fall  of  1791,  a  large 
force  was  collected  at  Cincinnati,  under  Gen 
eral  Arthur  St.  Clair,  and  marched  against  the 
Indians.  On  the  morning  of  November  4,  the 
Americans  were  surprised  near  the  Miami  villages, 
and  routed,  with  great  loss.  A  ballad  describing 
the  defeat  was  written  soon  afterwards,  and 
achieved  a  wide  popularity. 

SAINCLAIRE'S  DEFEAT 

[November  4,  1791] 

'T  WAS  November  the  fourth,  in  the  year  of 

ninety-one, 
We  had  a  sore  engagement  near  to  Fort 

Jefferson ; 


SAINCLAIRE'S   uEFEAT 


333 


Sainclaire  was  our  commander,  which  may 

remembered  be, 
For  there  we  left  nine  hundred  men  in  t' 

West'n  Ter'tory. 

At  Bunker's  Hill  and  Quebeck,  there  many  a 

hero  fell, 
Likewise  at  Long  Island  (it  is  I  the  truth  can 

tell), 
But  such  a  dreadful  carnage  may  I  never  see 

again 
As  hap'ned  near  St.  Mary's,  upon  the  river 

plain. 

Our  army  was  attacked  just  as  the  day  did 

dawn, 
And  soon  was  overpowered  and  driven  from 

the  lawn. 
They   killed    Major   Ouldham,   Levin   and 

Briggs  likewise, 
And  horrid  yells  of  savages  resounded  through 

the  skies. 

Major  Butler  was  wounded  the  very  second 

fire; 
His  manly   bosom  swell'd  with  rage  when 

forc'd  to  retire; 
And  as  he  lay  in  anguish,  nor  scarcely  could 

he  see, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Ye  hounds  of  hell !  Oh,  revenged 

I  will  be!" 

We  had  not  been  long  broken  when  General 

Butler  found 
Himself  so  badly  wounded,  was  forced  to  quit 

the  ground ; 
"My  God!"   says  he,  "what  shall  we  do? 

we  're  wounded  every  man; 
Go  charge  them,  valiant  heroes,  and   beat 

them  if  you  can." 

He  leaned  his  back  against  a  tree,  and  there 

resigned  his  breath, 
And  like  a  valiant  soldier  sunk  in  the  arms  of 

death ; 
When  blessed  angels  did  await  his  spirit  to 

convey, 
And  unto  the  celestial  fields  he  quickly  bent 

his  way. 

We  charg'd  again  with  courage  firm,  but  soon 

again  gave  ground ; 
The  war-whoop  then  redoubled,  as  did  the 

foes  around- 


They  killed  Major  Ferguson,  which  caused 

his  men  to  cry, 
"Our  only  safety  is  in  Sight,  or  fighting  here 

to  die." 

"Stand  to  your  guns,"  says  valiant  Ford; 
"  let 's  die  upon  them  here, 

Before  we  let  the  sav'ges  know  we  ever  har 
bored  fear!" 

Our  cannon-balls  exhausted,  and  artill'ry- 
men  all  slain, 

Obliged  were  our  musketmen  the  enemy  to 
sustain. 

Yet  three  hours  more  we  fought  them,  and 

then  were  forc'd  to  yield, 
When  three  hundred  warriors  lay  stretched 

upon  the  field. 
Says  Colonel  Gibson  to  his  men,  "My  boys, 

be  not  dismayed; 
1  'm  sure  that  true  Virginians  were  never  yet 

afraid. 

"Ten  thousand  deaths  I'd  rather  die  than 

they  should  gain  the  field ! " 
With  that  he  got  a  fatal  shot,  which  caused 

him  to  yield. 
Says  Major  Clarke,  "My  heroes,  I  can  here 

no  longer  stand; 
We'll  strive  to  form  in  order,  and  retreat  the 

best  we  can." 

The  word  "Retreat!"  being  passed  around, 

there  was  a  dismal  cry. 
Then  helter-skelter  through  the  woods  like 

wolves  and  sheep  they  fly. 
This  well-appointed  army,  who  but  a  day 

before 
Defied  and  braved  all  danger,  had  like  a 

cloud  passed  o'er. 

Alas,  the  dying  and  wounded,  how  dreadful 

was  the  thought! 
To    the    tomahawk    and    scalping-knife    in 

misery  are  brought. 
Some  had  a  thigh  and  some  an  arm  broke 

on  the  field  that  day, 
Who  writhed  in  torments  at  the  stake  to  close 

the  dire  affray. 

To  mention  our  brave  officers,  is  what  I  wish 

to  do; 
No  sens  of  Mars  e'er  fought  more  brave,  or 

with  more  courage  true. 


334 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


To  Captain  Bradford  I  belonged,  in  his  artil 
lery, 

He  fell  that  day  amongst  the  slain,  a  valiant 
man  was  he. 


After  this  victory,  the  Indians  grew  bolder  than 
ever,  and  attacks  on  the  border  settlements  were 
increasingly  frequent.  More  than  one  family  was 
saved  from  surprise  and  death  by  a  queer  char 
acter  known  as  Johnny  Appleseed,  who  travelled 
through  the  wilderness  planting  apple-seeds  which 
in  time  grew  into  valuable  orchards.  The  Indians 
thought  him  mad  and  would  not  harm  him. 


JOHNNY   APPLESEED 

A   BALLAD   OF   THE   OLD   NORTHWEST 

A  MIDNIGHT  cry  appalls  the  gloom, 
The  puncheon  door  is  shaken : 

"Awake!  arouse!  and  flee  the  doom! 
Man,  woman,  child,  awaken! 

"  Your  sky  shall  glow  with  fiery  beams 
Before  the  morn  breaks  ruddy! 

The  scalpknife  in  the  moonlight  gleams, 
Athirst  for  vengeance  bloody ! " 

Alammed  by  the  dreadful  word 
Some  warning  tongue  thus  utters, 

The  settler's  wife,  like  mother  bird, 
About  her  young  ones  flutters. 

Her  first-born,  rustling  from  a  soft 
Leaf-couch,  the  roof  close  under. 

Glides  down  the  ladder  from  the  loft, 
With  eyes  of  dreamy  wonder. 

The  pioneer  flings  open  wide 
The  cabin  door,  naught  fearing; 

The  grim  woods  drowse  on  every  side, 
Around  the  lonely  clearing. 

"Come  in!  come  in!  nor  like  an  owl 
Thus  hoot  your  doleful  humors; 

What  fiend  possesses  you  to  howl 
Such  crazy,  coward  rumors  ? " 

The  herald  strode  into  the  room; 

That  moment,  through  the  ashes, 
The  back-log  struggled  into  bloom 

Of  gold  and  crimson  flashes. 

The  glimmer  lighted  up  a  face, 
And  o'er  a  figure  dartled, 


So  eerie,  of  so  solemn  grace, 

The  bluff  backwoodsman  startled. 

The  brow  was  gathered  to  a  frown, 
The  eyes  were  strangely  glowing, 

And,  like  a  snow-fall  drifting  down, 
The  stormy  beard  went  flowing. 

The  tattered  cloak  that  round  him  clung 
Had  warred  with  foulest  weather; 

Across  his  shoulders  broad  were  flung 
Brown  saddlebags  of  leather. 

One  pouch  with  hoarded  seed  was  packed, 
From  Penn-land  cider-presses; 

The  other  garnered  book  and  tract 
Within  its  creased  recesses. 

A  glance  disdainful  and  austere, 

Contemptuous  of  danger, 
Cast  he  upon  the  pioneer. 

Then  spake  the  uncouth  stranger: 

"Heed  what  the  Lord's  anointed  saith; 

Hear  one  who  would  deliver 
Your  bodies  and  your  souls  from  death; 

List  ye  to  John  the  Giver. 

"Thou  trustful  boy,  in  spirit  wise 

Beyond  thy  father's  measure, 
Because  of  thy  believing  eyes 

I  share  with  thee  my  treasure. 

"Of  precious  seed  this  handful  take; 

Take  next  this  Bible  Holy: 
In  good  soil  sow  both  gifts,  for  sake 

Of  Him,  the  meek  and  lowly. 

"  Farewell!  I  go!  —  the  forest  calls 

My  life  to  ceaseless  labors; 
Wherever  danger's  shadow  falls 

I  fly  to  save  my  neighbors. 

"  I  save;  I  neither  curse  nor  slay; 

I  am  a  voice  that  crieth 
In  night  and  wilderness.   Away! 

Whoever  doubteth,  dieth!  " 

The  prophet  vanished  in  the  night, 
Like  some  fleet  ghost  belated: 

Then,  awe-struck,  fled  with  panic  fright 
The  household,  evil-fated. 

They  hurried  on  with  stumbling  feet, 
Foreboding  ambuscado; 


BLENNERHASSETT'S   ISLAND 


335 


Bewildered  hope  told  of  retreat 
In  frontier  palisado. 

But  ere  a  mile  of  tangled  maze 
Their  bleeding  hands  had  broken, 

Their  home-roof  set  the  dark  ablaze, 
Fulfilling  doom  forespoken. 

The  savage  death-whoop  rent  the  air! 

A  howl  of  rage  infernal ! 
The  fugitives  were  in  Thy  care, 

Almighty  Power  eternal ! 

Unscathed  by  tomahawk  or  knife, 

In  bosky  dingle  nested, 
The  hunted  pioneer,  with  wife 

And  babes,  hid  unmolested. 

The  lad,  when  age  his  locks  of  gold 
Had  changed  to  silver  glory, 

Told  grandchildren,  as  I  have  told, 
This  western  wildwood  story. 

Told  how  the  fertile  seeds  had  grown 
To  famous  trees,  and  thriven; 

And  oft  the  Sacred  Book  was  shown, 
By  that  weird  Pilgrim  given. 

Remember  Johnny  Appleseed, 

All  ye  who  love  the  apple; 
He  served  his  kind  by  Word  and  Deed, 

In  God's  grand  greenwood  chapel. 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE. 


On  August  20,  1 794,  General  Anthony  Wayne  de 
feated  the  Indians  on  the  Maumee  and  compelled 
them  to  sue  for  peace.  At  Greenville,  in  the  fol 
lowing  year,  they  ceded  25,000  square  miles  to 
the  Americans,  and  settlers  flocked  into  the  fertile 
country  thrown  open  to  them. 

THE   FOUNDERS   OF   OHIO 

THE  footsteps  of  a  hundred  years 

Have  echoed,  since  o'er  Braddock's  Road 

Bold  Putnam  and  the  Pioneers 
Led  History  the  way  they  strode. 

On  wild  Monongahela  stream 

They  launched  the  Mayflower  of  the  West, 
A  perfect  State  their  civic  dream, 

A  new  New  World  their  pilgrim  quest. 

When  April  robed  the  Buckeye  trees 
Muskingum's  bosky  shore  they  trod; 

They  pitched  their  tents,  and  to  the  breeze 
Flung  freedom's  star-flag,  thanking  God. 


As  glides  the  Oyo's  solemn  flood, 

So  fleeted  their  eventful  years; 
Resurgent  in  their  children's  blood, 

They  still  live  on  —  the  Pioneers. 

Their  fame  shrinks  not  to  names  and  dates 
On  votive  stone,  the  prey  of  time;  — 

Behold  where  monumental  States 
Immortalize  their  lives  sublime ! 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE. 

Ohio  was  admitted  to  the  Union  in  1803.  The 
serenity  of  the  new  state  was  rudely  shaken,  in 
1806,  by  the  remarkable  bugbear  known  as  the 
"  Burr  Conspiracy."  Burr  had  incurred  the  en 
mity  of  Jefferson  and  most  of  the  other  leading 
politicians  of  the  time,  ar.d  they  were  led  to  be 
lieve  that  he  was  preparing  an  expedition  against 
the  southwest,  to  set  up  a  separate  empire  there. 
Burr  had  interested  in  his  plan  —  which  was 
really  directed  against  Mexico  —  one  Harmon 
Blennerhassett,  who  owned  the  island  of  that 
name  in  the  Ohio,  and  who  undertook  to  finance 
the  expedition. 

BLENNERHASSETT'S   ISLAND 

From  "The  New  Pastoral  " 

ONCE  came  an  exile,  longing  to  be  free, 
Born  in  the  greenest  island  of  the  sea; 
He  sought  out  this,  the  fairest  blooming  isle 
That  ever  gemmed  a  river;  and  its  smile, 
Of  summer  green  and  freedom,  on  his  heart 
Fell,  like  the  light  of  Paradise.   Apart 
It  lay,  remote  and  wild;  and  in  his  breast 
He  fancied  this  an  island  of  the  blest; 
And  here  he  deemed  the  world  might  never 

mar 

The  tranquil  air  with  its  molesting  jar. 
Long  had  his  soul,  among  the  strife  of  men, 
Gone  out  and  fought,  and  fighting,  failed; 

and  then 

Withdrew  into  itself:  as  when  some  fount 
Finds  space  within,  and  will  no  longer  mount, 
Content  to  hear  its  own  secluded  waves 
Make  lonely  music  in  the  new-found  caves. 
And  here  he  brought  his  household;  here  his 

wife, 

As  happy  as  her  children,  round  his  life 
Sang  as  she  were  an  echo,  or  a  part 
Of  the  deep  pleasure  springing  in  his  heart  — 
A  silken  string  which  with  the  heavier  cord 
Made    music,    such    as    well-strung    harps 

afford. 

She  was  the  embodied  spirit  of  the  man, 
His  second  self,  but  on  a  fairer  plan. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  here  they  came,  and  here  they  built  their 

home, 
And  set   the  rose  and   taught  the  vines  to 

roam, 

Until  the  place  became  an  isle  of  bowers, 
Where    odors,    mist-like,    swam    above    the 

flowers. 

It  was  a  place  where  one  mi^ht  lie  and  dream, 
And  see  the  naiads,  from  the  river-stream. 
Stealing  among  the  umbrous,  drooping  limbs ; 
Where  Zephyr,  'mid  the  willows,  tuned  her 

hymns 
Round  rippling  shores.   Here  would  the  first 

birds  throng, 

In  early  spring-time,  and  their  latest  song 
Was  given  in  autumn ;  when  all  else  had  fled. 
They  half  forgot  to  go ;  such  beauty  here  was 

spread. 

It  was,  in  sooth,  a  fair  enchanted  isle, 
Round  which  the  unbroken  forest,  many  a 

mile, 

Reached  the  horizon  like  a  boundless  sea;  — 
A  sea  whose  waves,  at  last,  were  forced  to  flee 
<On  either  hand,  before  the  westward  host, 
To  meet  no  more  upon  its  ancient  coast. 
But  all  things  fair,  save  truth,  are  frail  and 

doomed ; 

And  brightest  beauty  is  the  first  consumed 
By  envious  Time;  as  if  he  crowned  the  brow 
With  loveliest  flowers,   before  he  gave  the 

blow 

Which  laid  the  victim  on  the  hungry  shrine :  — 
Such  was  the  dreamer's  fate,  and  such,  bright 

isle,  was  thine. 

There  came  the  stranger,  heralded  by  fame. 
Whose  eloquent  soul  was  like  a  tongue  of 

flame, 
Which  brightened  and  despoiled  whate'er  it 

touched . 

A  violet,  by  an  iron  gauntlet  clutched, 
Were  not  more  doomed  than  whosoe'er  he 

.won 
To  list  his  plans,  with  glowing  words  o'er- 

run: 

And  Blennerhassett  hearkened  as  he  planned. 

Ear  in  the  South  there  was  a  glorious  land 

vCrowjaed  with  perpetual  flowers,  and  where 

.repute 
Pictured  the  gold  more  plenteous  than  the 

fruit  — 

The  Persia  of  the  West.  There  would  he  steer 
His  conquering  course;  and  o'er  the  bright 

land  rear 

His  far-usurping  banner,  till  his  home 
Should  rest  beneath  a  wide,  imperial  dome, 


Where  License,  round  his  throned  feet,  should 

whirl 

Her  dizzy  mazes  like  an  Orient  girl. 
His  followers  should  be  lords;  their  ladies  each 
Wear  wreaths  of  gems  beyond  the  old  world's 

reach; 

And  emperors,  gazing  to  that  land  of  bloom, 
With  impotent  fire  of  envy  should  consume. 
Such  was  the  gorgeous  vision  which  he  drew. 
The  listeners  aw ;  and,  dazzled  by  the  view,  — 
As  one  in  some  enchanter's  misty  room, 
His  senses  poisoned  by  the  strange  perfume, 
Beholds  with  fierce  desire  the  picture  fair. 
And  grasps  at  nothing  in  the  painted  air,  — 
Gave  acquiescence,  in  a  fatal  hour, 
And  wealth,  and  hope,  and  peace  were  in  the 

tempter's  power. 

The  isle  became  a  rendezvous;  and  then 
Came  in  the  noisy  rule  of  lawless  men. 
Domestic  calm,  affrighted,  fled  afar. 
And  Riot  revelled  'neath  the  midnight  star; 
Continuous  music  rustled  through  the  trees, 
Where   banners   danced   responsive   on   the 

breeze ; 

Or  in  festoons,  above  the  astonished  bowers, 
With  flaming  colors  shamed  the  modest 

flowers. 

There  clanged  the  mimic  combat  of  the  sword, 
Like  daily  glasses  round  the  festive  board; 
Here  lounged  the  chiefs,  there  marched  the 

plumed  file, 

And  martial  splendor  over-ran  the  isle. 
Already,  the  shrewd  leader  of  the  sport 
The  shadowy  sceptre  grasped,  and  swayed  his 

court. 

In  dreams,  or  waking,  revelling  or  alone, 
Before  him  swam  the  visionary  throne; 
Until  a  voice,  as  if  the  insulted  woods 
Had  risen  to  claim  their  ancient  solitudes, 
Broke  on  his  spirit,  like  a  trumpet  rude, 
Shattering  his  dream  to  nothing  where  he 

stood! 

The  revellers  vanished,  and  the  banners  fell 
Like  the  red  leaves  beneath  November's  spell. 
Full  of  great  hopes,  sustained  by  mighty  will. 
Urged  by  ambition,  confident  of  skill, 
As  fearless  to  perform  as  to  devise, 
A-flush,  but  now  he  saw  the  glittering  prize 
Flame  like  a  cloud  in  day's  descending  track; 
But,  lo,  the  sun  went  down  and  left  it  black ! 
Alone,  despised,  defiance  in  his  eye, 
He  heard  the  shout,  and  "treason!"  was  the 

cry; 

And  that  harsh  word,  with  its  unpitying blight. 
Swept  o'er  the  island  like  an  arctic  night. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  MUSKINGUM 


337 


Cold  grew  the  hearthstone,  withered  fell  the 

flowers, 

And  desolation  walked  among  the  bowers. 
This  was  the  mansion.  Through  the  ruined 

hall 
The  loud  winds  sweep,  with  gusty  rise  and 

fall, 
Or  glide,  like  phantoms,  through   the  open 

doors; 

And  winter  drifts  his  snow  along  the  floors, 
Blown  through  the  yawning  rafters,  where  the 

stars 

And  moon  look  in  as  through  dull  prison  bars. 
On  yonder  gable,  through  the  nightly  dark, 
The  owl  replies  unto  the  dreary  bark 
Of  lonely  fox,  beside  the  grass-grown  sill ; 
And  here,  on  summer  eves,  the  whip-poor-will 
Exalts  her  voice,  and  to  the  traveller's  ear 
Proclaims  how  Ruin  rules  with  full  content 
ment  here. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


Soon  word  got  abroad  that  a  great  expedition 
wad  being  fitted  out  at  Blennerhassett;  the  gov 
ernor  of  Ohio  called  out  the  sheriffs  and  militia, 
who  gathered  in  force,  seized  ten  boats  laden  with 
corn-meal,  but  permitted  the  boats  containing 
Blennerhassett  and  his  followers  to  get  away.  A 
mob  destroyed  Blennerhassett's  beautiful  home 
and  desolated  the  "fairy  isle." 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MUSKINGUM 

OR,   THE   DEFEAT  OF  THE   BURRITE3 
[November  30,  1806] 

YE  jovial  throng,  come  join  the  song 

I  sing  of  glorious  feats,  sirs; 
Of  bloodless  wounds,  of  laurels,  crowns, 

Of  charges,  and  retreats,  sirs; 

Of  fhnndering  guns,  and  honors  won, 

By  men  of  daring  courage; 
Of  such  as  dine  on  beef  and  wine, 

And  such  as  sup  their  porridge. 

When  Blanny's  fleet,  so  snug  and  neat, 
Came  floating  down  the  tide,  sirs, 

Ahead  was  seen  one-eyed  Clark  Green, 
To  work  them,  or  to  guide,  sirs. 

Our  General  brave  the  order  gave, 
"  To  arms !  To  arms,  in  season ! 

Old  Blanny's  boats  most  careless  float, 
Brim-full  of  death  and  treason!" 


A  few  young  boys,  their  mothers'  joys, 
And  five  men  there  were  found,  sirs, 

Floating  at  ease  —  each  little  sees 
Or  dreams  of  death  and  wound,  sirs. 

"Fly  to  the  bank!  on  either  flank! 

We'll  fire  from  every  corner; 
We'll  stain  with  blood  Muskingum's  flood, 

And  gain  immortal  honor. 

"The  cannon  there  shall  rend  the  air, 
Loaded  with  broken  spikes,  boys; 

While  our  cold  lead,  hurled  by  each  head 
Shall  give  the  knaves  the  gripes,  boys. 

"Let  not  maids  sigh,  or  children  cry, 

Or  mothers  drop  a  tear,  boys; 
I  have  the  Baron  in  my  head. 

Therefore  you  've  nought  to  fear,  boys. 

"Now  to  your  posts,  this  numerous  host, 

Be  manly,  firm,  and  steady. 
But  do  not  fire  till  I  retire 

And  say  when  I  am  ready." 

The  Deputy  courageously 

Rode  forth  in  power  and  pride,  sirs; 
Twitching  his  reins,  the  man  of  brains 

Was  posted  by  his  side,  sirs. 

The  men  in  ranks  stood  on  the  banks, 

While,  distant  from  its  border, 
The  active  aid  scours  the  parade 

And  gives  the  general  order: 

"First,  at  command,  bid  them  to  stand; 

Then,  if  one  rascal  gains  out 
Or  lifts  his  poll,  why,  damn  his  soul 

And  blow  the  traitor's  brains  out." 

The  night  was  dark,  silent  came  Clark 
With  twelve  or  fifteen  more,  sirs; 

While  Paddy  Hill,  with  voice  most  shrill, 
Whooped !  as  was  said  before,  sirs. 

The  trembling  ranks  along  the  banks 

Fly  into  Shipman's  manger; 
While  old  Clark  Green,  with  voice  serene, 

Cried,  "Soldiers,  there's  no  danger. 

"Our  guns,  good  souls,  are  setting-poles, 
Dead  hogs  I'm  sure  can't  bite  you; 

Along  each  keel  is  Indian  meal; 

There's  nothing  here  need  fright  you." 


338 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Out  of  the  barn,  still  in  alarm, 

Came  fifty  men  or  more,  sirs, 
And  seized  each  boat  and  other  float 

And  tied  them  to  the  shore,  sirs. 

This  plunder  rare,  they  sport  and  share, 

And  each  a  portion  grapples. 
'T  was  half  a  kneel  of  Indian  meal, 

And  ten  of  Putnam's  apples. 

The  boats  they  drop  to  Allen's  shop, 

Commanded  by  O'Flannon, 
Where,  lashed  ashore,  without  an  oar, 

They  lay  beneath  the  cannon. 

This  band  so  bold,  the  night  being  cold, 
And  blacksmith's  shop  being  handy, 

Around  the  forge  they  drink  and  gorge 
On  whiskey  and  peach-brandy. 

Two  honest  tars,  who  had  some  scars, 

Beheld  their  trepidation; 
Cries  Tom,  "Come,  Jack,  let's  fire  a  crack; 

'T  will  fright  them  like  damnation. 

"Tyler,  they  say,  lies  at  Belpre, 

Snug  in  old  Blanny's  quarters; 
Yet  this  pale  host  tremble  like  ghosts 

For  fear  he'll  walk  on  waters." 

No  more  was  said,  but  off  they  sped 

To  fix  what  they'd  begun  on; 
At  one  o'clock,  firm  as  a  rock, 

They  fired  the  spun-yarn  cannon. 

Trembling  and  wan  stood  every  man; 

Then  bounced  and  shouted  murder, 
While  Sergeant  Morse  squealed  like  a  horse 

To  get  the  folks  to  order. 

Ten  men  went  out  and  looked  about  — 

A  hardy  set  of  fellows; 
Some  hid  in  holes  behind  the  coals, 

And  some  behind  the  bellows. 

The  Cor'ner  swore  the  western  shore 

He  saw  with  muskets  bristle; 
Some  stamp'd  the  ground ;  — 't  was   cannon 
sound, 

They  heard  the  grape-shot  whistle. 

The  Deputy  mounted  "Old  Bay," 

When  first  he  heard  the  rattle, 
Then  changed  his  course  —  "  Great  men  are 
scarce, 

I'd  better  keep  from  battle." 


The  General  flew  to  meet  the  crew, 

His  jacket  flying  loose,  sirs; 
Instead  of  sword,  he  seized  his  board ;  — 

Instead  of  hat,  his  goose,  sirs. 

"Tyler  's,"  he  cried,  "on  t'other  side, 

Your  spikes  will  never  do  it; 
The  cannon's  bore  will  hold  some  more," 

Then  thrust  his  goose  into  it. 

Sol  raised  his  head,  cold  spectres  fled; 

Each  man  resumed  his  courage; 
Captain  O'FIan  dismissed  each  man 

To  breakfast  on  cold  porridge. 

WILLIAM  HARRISON  SAFFORD. 


The  whole  party,  including  Burr,  were  arrested 
February  19,  1807  near  Fort  Stoddart,  Ala.,  and 
taken  to  Richmond,  Va.,  where  Burr  was  put  on 
trial  for  treason.  The  trial  lasted  six  months,  and 
resulted  in  acquittal. 


TO  AARON  BURR,  UNDER  TRIAL 
FOR  HIGH  TREASON 

Tnotr  wonder  of  the  Atlantic  shore, 
Whose  deeds  a  million  hearts  appall; 

Thy  fate  shall  pity's  eye  deplore, 
Or  vengeance  for  thy  ruin  call. 

Thou  man  of  soul !  whose  feeble  form 
Seems  as  a  leaf  the  gales  defy, 

Though  scattered  in  sedition's  storm, 
Yet  borne  by  glorious  hope  on  high. 

Such  did  the  youthful  Ammon  seem, 
And  such  does  Europe's  scourge  appear, 

As,  of  the  sun,  a  vertic  beam, 
The  brightest  in  the  golden  year. 

Nature,  who  many  a  gift  bestowed, 
The  strong  herculean  limbs  denied, 

But  gave  —  a  mind,  where  genius  glowed, 
A  soul,  to  valor's  self  allied. 

Ambition  as  her  curse  was  seen, 
Thy  every  blessing  to  annoy; 

To  blight  thy  laurels'  tender  green; 
The  banner  of  thy  fame  destroy. 

Ambition,  by  the  bard  defined 
The  fault  of  godlike  hearts  alone, 

Like  fortune  in  her  frenzy,  blind, 
Here  gives  a  prison,  there  a  throne. 
SARAH  WENTWORTH  MORTON. 


THE  TOMB   OF  THE  BRAVE 


339 


Scarcely  had  this  "peril"'  been  escaped,  when 
another  far  more  serious  threatened  the  state  on 
its  western  border.  Tecumseh,  chief  of  the  Shaw- 
anese,  was  working  to  unite  the  western  and  south 
ern  Indians  in  war  against  the  United  States. 
William  Henry  Harrison  had  been  made  gov 
ernor  of  the  Indiana  territory,  and,  collecting  a 
force  of  about  six  hundred  and  fifty  men,  he 
inarched  into  the  Indian  country,  and,  on  No 
vember  7,  1811,  at  Tippecanoe,  on  the  Wabash, 
routed  the  Indians  and  destroyed  their  villages. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  TIPPECANOE 

[November  7,  1811] 

AWAKE!  awake!  my  gallant  friends; 

To  arms!   to  arms!   the  foe  is  nigh; 
The  sentinel  his  warning  sends; 

And  hark!   the  treacherous  savage  cry. 
Awake !   to  arms !   the  word  goes  round ; 
The  drum's  deep  roll,  the   fife's   shrill 

sound, 
The  trumpet's  blast,  proclaim  through 

night, 
An  Indian  band,  a  bloody  fight. 

O  haste  thee,  Baen !  alas!  too  late; 

A  red  chief's  arm  now  aims  the  blow 
(An  early,  but  a  glorious  fate); 
The  tomahawk  has  laid  thee  low. 

Dread  darkness  reigns.  On,  Daviess,  on. 
Where 's  Boyd  ?   And  valiant  Harrison, 
Commander  of  the  Christian  force  ? 
And  Owen  ?  He 's  a  bleeding  corse ! 

"Stand,  comrades  brave,  stand  to  your  post: 

Here  Wells,  and  Floyd,  and  Barton;  all 
Must  now  be  won,  or  must  be  lost; 

Ply  briskly,  bayonet,  sword,  and  ball." 
Thus  spake  the  general;   when  a  yell 
Was  heard,  as  though  a  hero  fell. 
And,  hark !   the  Indian  whoop  again  — 
It  is  for  daring  Daviess  slain ! 

Oh!   fearful  is  the  battle's  rage; 
No  lady's  hand  is  in  the  fray; 
But  brawny  limbs  the  contest  wage, 
And  struggle  for  the  victor's  bay. 

Lo !  Spencer  sinks,  and  Warwick 's  slain, 
And  breathless  bodies  strew  the  plain: 
And  yells,  and  groans,  and  clang,  and 

roar, 
Echo  along  the  WTabash  shore. 

But  mark !  where  breaks  upon  the  eye 
Aurora's  beam.   The  coming  day 


Shall  foil  a  frantic  prophecy, 

And  Christian  valor  well  display. 
Ne'er  did  Constantine's  soldiers  see, 
With  more  of  joy  for  victory, 
A  cross  the  arch  of  heaven  adorn, 
Than  these  the  blushing  of  the  morn. 

Bold  Boyd  led  on  his  steady  band, 

With  bristling  bayonets  burnish 'd  bright: 
Who  could  their  dauntless  charge  withstand  ? 
What  stay  the  warriors'  matchless  might f 
Rushing  amain,  they  clear'd  the  field, 
The  savage  foe  constrain'd  to  yield 
To  Harrison,  who,  near  and  far, 
Gave  form  and  spirit  to  the  war. 

Sound,  sound  the  charge !  spur,  spur  the  steed, 

And  swift  the  fugitives  pursue  — 
'T  is  vain :   rein  in  —  your  utmost  speed 
Could  not  o'ertake  the  recreant  crew. 
In  lowland  marsh,  in  dell,  or  cave, 
Each  Indian  sought  his  life  to  save; 
Whence,  peering  forth,  with  fear  and  ire> 
He  saw  his  prophet's  town  on  fire. 

Now  the  great  Eagle  of  the  West 

Triumphant  wing  was  seen  to  wave! 
And  now  each  soldier's  manly  breast 
Sigh'd  o'er  his  fallen  comrade's  grave. 
Some  dropp'd  a  tear,  and  mused  the  while, 
Then  join'd  in  measured  march  their  file; 
And  here  and  there  cast  wistful  eye, 
That  might  surviving  friend  descry. 

But  let  a  foe  again  appear, 

Or  east,  or  west,  or  south,  or  north; 
The  soldier  then  shall  dry  his  tear, 
And  fearless,  gayly  sally  forth. 

With  lightning  eye,  and  warlike  front, 
He  '11  meet  the  battle's  deadly  brunt : 
Come  Gaul  or  Briton ;   if  array'd 
For  fight  —  he'll  feel  a  freeman's  blade. 


THE  TOMB  OF  THE  BRAVE 

IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  THE  BATTLE  ON  THE 
WABASH 

[November  7,  1811] 

WHEN  darkness  prevail'd  and  aloud  on  the 

air 

No  war-whoop  was  heard  tbrough  the  deep 
silence  yelling, 


340 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Till,  fiercely,  like  lions  just  wild  from  their  lair, 
Our  chiefs  found  the  foe  on  their  slumbers 
propelling. 

While  the  mantle  of  night 

Hid  the  savage  from  sight, 

Undismay'd  were  our  warriors  slain  in  the 

fight: 

But  the  laurel  shall  ever  continue  to  wave, 
And  glory  thus  bloom  o'er  the  tomb  of  the 
brave. 

Brave  Daviess,  legitimate  offspring  of  fame, 
Though  new  to  the  war,  rush'd  to  battle 

undaunted ; 
And  ere,  bearing  death,  the  dread  rifle-ball 

came, 

In  the  breast  of  the  foe  oft  his  weapon  he 
planted. 

Gallant  Daviess,  adieu ! 
Tears  thy  destiny  drew; 
But  yet  o'er  thy  body  shall  tremble  no  yew, 
For  the  laurel,  etc. 

Great  Owen,  too  bold  from  the  fight  to  re 
main, 
Rush'd  on  to  the  foe,  every  soldier's  heart 

firing; 
But  he  sinks,  in  the  blood  of  his  foes,  on  the 

plain, 

The  pale  lamp  of  life  in  its  socket  expiring ; 
Closed  ill  death  are  his  eyes, 
And  lamented  he  lies; 
Yet  o'er  the  sad  spot  shall  no  cypress  arise ! 
But  the  laurel,  etc. 

Long  Warwick,  M'Mahan,  and  Spencer,  and 

Baen, 
And   Berry,  'mid  darkness  their  banners 

defended, 
But  when  day  drew  the  curtain  of  night,  they 

were  seen 

Cover'd  o'er  with  the  blood  of  the  savage, 
extended. 

Though  Freedom  may  weep 
Where  they  mouldering  sleep, 
Yet  shall  valor  their  death  as  a  jubilee  keep: 
For  the  laurel,  etc. 

Ye   chiefs   of   the   Wabash,    who   gallantly 

fought, 
And  fearlessly  heard  the  dread  storm  of 

war  rattle, 

Who  lived  to  see  conquest  so  terribly  bought, 
While  your  brothers  were  lost  in  the  uproar 
of  battle, 


Still  fearless  remain, 
And,  though  stretch'd  on  the  plain, 
You  shall  rise  on  the  records  of  freedom  again : 
For  the  laurel,  etc. 

Ye  sons  of  Columbia,  when  danger  is  nigh, 
And  liberty  calls,  round  her  standard  to 

rally, 

For  your  country,  your  wives,  and  your  chil 
dren  to  die, 

Resolve  undismay'd  on  oppression  to  sally. 
Every  hero  secure 
That  his  fame  shall  endure 
Till  eternity  time  in  oblivion  immure ; 

For  the  laurel  shall  ever  continue  to  wave, 
And  glory  thus  bloom  o'er  the  tomb  of  the 
brave. 

JOSEPH  HUTTON. 


While  this  struggle  was  waging  for  the  country 
between  the  Alleghanies  and  the  Mississippi,  two 
daring  explorers  traversed  the  country  to  the 
west  of  the  great  river.  On  May  14,  1804,  Captain 
Meriwether  Lewis  and  Lieutenant  William  Clark, 
of  the  First  Infantry,  who  had  been  appointed  to 
seek  water  communication  with  the  Pacific  Coast, 
entered  the  Missouri  River  and  started  westward. 


SA-CA-GA-WE-A 

THE  INDIAN  GIRL  WHO  GUIDED  LEWIS  AND 
CLARK  IN  THEIR  EXPEDITION  TO  THE 
PACIFIC 

SHO-SHO-NE   SA-CA-GA-WE-A  —  captive    and 

wife  was  she 
On  the  grassy  plains  of  Dakota  in  the  land 

of  the  Minnetaree; 
But  she  heard  the  west  wind  calling,  and 

longed  to  follow  the  sun 
Back  to  the  shining  mountains  and  the  glens 

where  her  life  begun. 
So,  when  the  valiant  Captains,  fain  for  the 

Asian  sea. 
Stayed  their  marvellous  journey  in  the  land 

of  the  Minnetaree 
(The  Red  Men  wondering,  wary  —  Omaha, 

Mandan,  Sioux  — 
Friendly  now,  now  hostile,  as  they  toiled  the 

wilderness  through), 
Glad  she  turned  from  the  grassy  plains  and 

led  their  way  to  the  West, 
Her  course  as  true  as  the  swan's  that  flew 

north  to  its  reedy  nest; 
Her  eye  as  keen  as  the  eagle's  when  the  young 

lambs  feed  below; 


ON  THE  DISCOVERIES   OF   CAPTAIN  LEWIS 


34i 


Her  ear  alert  as  the  stag's  at  morn  guarding 

the  fawn  and  doe. 
Straight  was  she  as  a  hillside  fir,  lithe  as  the 

willow-tree, 
And  her  foot  as  fleet  as  the  antelope's  when 

the  hunter  rides  the  lea; 
In    broidered    tunic    and    moccasins,    with 

braided  raven  hair, 
And  closely  belted  buffalo  robe  with  her  baby 

nestling  there  — 
Girl  of  but  sixteen  summers,  the  homing  bird 

of  the  quest, 
Free  of  the  tongues  of  the  mountains,  deep  on 

her  heart  imprest,  — 
Sho-sho-ne  Sa-ca-ga-we-a  led  the  way  to  the 

West!  — 
To  Missouri's  broad  savannas  dark  with  bison 

and  deer, 
While  the  grizzly  roamed   the  savage  shore 

and  cougar  and  wolf  prowled  near; 
To  the  cataract's  leap,  and  the  meadows  with 

lily  and  rose  abloom ; 

The  sunless  trails  of  the  forest,  and  the  can 
yon's  hush  and  gloom; 

By  the  veins  of  gold  and  silver,  and  the  moun 
tains  vast  and  grim  — 
Their  snowy  summits  lost  in  clouds  on  the 

wide  horizon's  brim; 
Through  sombre  pass,  by  soaring  peak,  till 

the  Asian  wind  blew  free, 
And   lo!  the  roar  of  the  Oregon  and  the 

splendor  of  the  Sea ! 

Some  day,  in  the  lordly  upland  where  the 

snow-fed  streams  divide  — 
Afoam  for  the  far  Atlantic,  afoam  for  Pacific's 

tide  — 
There,  by  the  valiant  Captains  whose  glory 

will  never  dim 
While  the  sun  goes  down  to  the  Asian  sea 

and  the  stars  in  ether  swim, 
She  will  stand  in  bronze  as  richly  brown  as 

the  hue  of  her  girlish  cheek, 
With  broidered  robe  and  braided  hair  and 

lips  just  curved  to  speak; 
And  the  mountain  winds  will   murmur  as 

they  linger  along  the  crest, 
"Sho-sho-ne  Sa-ca-ga-we-a,  who  led  the  way 

to  the  West!" 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


They  ascended  the  Missouri,  crossed  the  moun 
tains,  and  descended  the  Columbia,  reaching  its 
mouth  November  15,  1805.  They  started  on  the 
return  journey  in  March,  1806,  and  reached  St. 


Louis  in  September.  On  January  14,  1807,  a 
dinner  was  given  at  Washington  to  the  explorers, 
in  the  course  of  which  the  following  stanzas  were 
recited. 


ON  THE  DISCOVERIES  OF  CAPTAIN 
LEWIS 

[January  14,  1807] 

LET  the  Nile  cloak  his  head  in  the  clouds,  and 

defy 

The  researches  of  science  and  time; 
Let   the  Niger  escape  the  keen   traveller's 

eye, 
By  plunging  or  changing  his  clime. 

Columbus!   not  so  shall   thy  boundless  do 
main 

Defraud  thy  brave  sons  of  their  right; 
Streams,  midlands,  and  shorelands  elude  us 

in  vain. 
We  shall  drag  their  dark  regions  to  light. 

Look  down,  sainted  sage,  from  thy  synod  of 

Gods; 

See,  inspired  by  thy  venturous  soul, 
Mackenzie  roll  northward  his  earth-draining 

floods, 
And  surge  the  broad  waves  to  the  pole. 

With  the  same   soaring  genius  thy  Lewis 

ascends, 

And,  seizing  the  car  of  the  sun, 
O'er  the  sky-propping  hills  and  high  waters 

he  bends, 
And  gives  the  proud  earth  a  new  zone. 

Potowmak,  Ohio,  Missouri  had  felt 
Half    her   globe  in   their   cincture   com- 

prest ; 
His  long  curving  course  has  completed  the 

belt, 
And  tamed  the  last  tide  of  the  west. 

Then  hear  the  loud  voice  of  the  nation  pro 
claim, 

And  all  ages  resound  the  decree: 
Let  our  Occident  stream  bear  the  young  hero's 

name, 
Who  taught  him  his  path  to  the  sea. 

These  four  brother  floods,  like  a  garland  of 

flowers, 
Shall  entwine  all  our  states  in  a  band 


342 


Conform  and  confederate  their  wide-spreading 

powers, 
And  their  wealth  and  their  wisdom  expand. 

From  Darien  to  Davis  one  garden  shall  bloom, 
Where  war's  weary  banners  are  furl'd, 

And  the  far  scenting  breezes  that  waft  its 

perfume, 
Shall  settle  the  storms  of  the  world. 

Then  hear  the  loud  voice  of  the  nation  pro 
claim 

And  all  ages  resound  the  decree: 
Let  our  Occident  stream  bear  the  young  hero's 

name, 
Who  taught  him  his  path  to  the  sea. 

JOEL  BARLOW. 


For  many  years,  the  East  showed  little  interest 
in  this  far  western  land  —  it  was  too  indistinct,  too 
distant.  The  British  Hudson  Bay  Company  had 
its  eye  on  the  country,  and  in  October,  1842,  pre 
pared  to  bring  in  a  large  body  of  immigrants  to 
occupy  it.  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman,  of  the  American 
Board  of  Missions,  learned  of  this  design,  and 
started  to  ride  across  the  country  to  Washington, 
D.  C.,  in  order  to  lay  the  plot  before  the  United 
States  government.  After  enduring  almost  in 
credible  fatigue  and  hardship,  he  reached  Wash 
ington  March  3,  1843.  The  tidings  he  brought 
spurred  the  government  to  retain  this  great  terri 
tory. 

WHITMAN'S  RIDE  FOR  OREGON 

[October,  1842-March  3,  1843] 


"Ax  empire  to  be  lost  or  won!" 

And  who  four  thousand  miles  will  ride 
And  climb  to  heaven  the  Great  Divide, 

And  find  the  way  to  Washington, 

Through  mountain  canons,  winter  snows, 
O'er  streams  where   free  the  north  wind 
blows  ? 

Who,  who  will  ride  from  Walla- Walla, 
Four  thousand  miles  for  Oregon? 


"An  empire  to  be  lost  or  won? 
In  youth  to  man  I  gave  my  all, 
And  nought  is  yonder  mountain  wall; 

If  but  the  will  of  Heaven  be  done, 
It  is  not  mine  to  live  or  die, 
Or  count  the  mountains  low  or  high, 

Or  count  the  miles  from  Walla-Walla. 
I,  I  will  ride  for  Oregon. 


"An  empire  to  be  lost  or  won? 
Bring  me  my  Cayuse  pony  then, 
And  I  will  thread  old  ways  again, 

Beneath  the  gray  skies'  crystal  sun. 

'T  was  on  these  altars  of  the  air 
I  raised  the  flag,  and  saw  below 
The  measureless  Columbia  flow; 

The  Bible  oped,  and  bowed  in  prayer, 

And  gave  myself  to  God  anew, 
And  felt  my  spirit  newly  born; 

And  to  my  mission  I'll  be  true, 

And  from  the  vale  of  Walla-Walla, 
I'll  ride  again  for  Oregon. 

IV 

"I'm  not  my  own,  myself  I've  given, 

To  bear  to  savage  hordes  the  word; 
If  on  the  altars  of  the  heaven 

I'm  called  to  die,  it  is  the  Lord. 
The  herald  may  not  wait  or  choose, 

'T  is  his  the  summons  to  obey; 
To  do  his  best,  or  gain  or  lose, 

To  seek  the  Guide  and  not  the  way. 
He  must  not  miss  the  cross,  and  I 

Have  ceased  to  think  of  life  or  death ; 
My  ark  I've  builded  —  Heaven  is  nigh, 

And  earth  is  but  a  morning's  breath ; 
Go,  then,  my  Cayuse  pony  bring, 

The  hopes  that  seek  myself  are  gone, 
And  from  the  vale  of  Walla- Walla, 

I'll  ride  again  for  Oregon." 


He  disappeared,  as  not  his  own, 

He  heard  the  warning  ice  winds  sigh; 
The  smoky  sun  flames  o'er  him  shone, 

On  whitened  altars  of  the  sky, 
As  up  the  mountain  sides  he  rose; 

The  wandering  eagle  round  him  wheeled. 
The  partridge  fled,  the  gentle  roes, 

And  oft  his  Cayuse  pony  reeled 
Upon  some  dizzy  crag,  and  gazed 

Down  cloudy  chasms,  falling  storms, 
While  higher  yet  the  peaks  upraised 

Against  the  winds  their  giant  forms. 
On,  on  and  on,  past  Idaho, 

On  past  the  mighty  Saline  sea, 
His  covering  at  night  the  snow, 

His  only  sentinel  a  tree. 
On,  past  Portneuf's  basaltic  heights, 

On  where  the  San  Juan  mountains  ky, 
Through  sunless  days  and  starless  nights, 

Towards  Toas  and  far  Sante  Fe. 


DISCOVERY  OF   SAN   FRANCISCO   BAY 


343 


O'er  table-lands  of  sleet  and  hail, 

Through  pine-roofed  gorges,  canons  cold, 

Now  fording  streams  incased  in  mail 
Of  ice,  like  Alpine  knights  of  old : 

Still  on,  and  on,  forgetful  on, 
Till  far  behind  lay  Walla-Walla, 

And  far  the  fields  of  Oregon. 

VI 

The  winter  deepened,  sharper  grew 

The  hail  and  sleet,  the  frost  and  snow, 
Not  e'en  the  eagle  o'er  him  flew, 

And  scarce  the  partridge's  wing  below. 
The  land  became  a  long  white  sea, 

And  then  a  deep  with  scarce  a  coast, 
The  stars  refused  their  light,  till  he 

Was  in  the  wildering  mazes  lost. 
He  dropped  the  rein,  his  stiffened  hand 

Was  like  a  statue's  hand  of  clay ; 
"  My  trusty  beast,  't  is  the  command, 

Go  on,  I  leave  to  thee  the  way. 
I  must  go  on,  I  must  go  on, 

Whatever  lot  may  fall  to  me, 
On,  't  is  for  others'  sake  I  ride,  — 

For  others  I  may  never  see,  — 
And  dare  thy  clouds,  O  Great  Divide; 

Not  for  myself,  O  W7alla-WTalIa, 
Not  for  myself,  O  Washington, 
But  for  thy  future,  Oregon." 


And  on  and  on  the  dumb  beast  pressed, 

Uncertain,  and  without  a  guide, 
And  found  the  mountain's  curves  of  rest 

And  sheltered  ways  of  the  Divide. 
His  feet  grew  firm,  he  found  the  way 

With  storm-beat  limbs  and  frozen  breath, 
As  keen  his  instincts  to  obey 

As  was  his  master's  eye  of  faith. 
Still  on  and  on,  still  on  and  on, 

And  far  and  far  grew  Walla-Walla, 
And  far  the  fields  of  Oregon. 

VIII 

That  spring,  a  man  with  frozen  feet 

Came  to  the  marble  halls  of  State, 
And  told  his  mission  but  to  meet 

The  chill  of  scorn,  the  scoff  of  hate. 
"Is  Oregon  worth  saving?"  asked 

The  treaty-makers  from  the  coast; 
And  him  the  church  with  questions  tasked, 

And  said,  "  Why  did  you  leave  your  post  ? ' 
Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  braved 

The  warring  storms  of  mount  and  sky? 


Yes!  —  yet  that  empire  he  had  saved, 
And  to  his  post  went  back  to  die,  — 

Went  back  to  die  for  others'  sake, 
Went  back  to  die  from  Washington, 

Went  back  to  die  for  Walla-Walla, 
For  Idaho  and  Oregon. 


At  fair  Walla-Walla  one  may  see 

The  city  of  the  Western  North, 
And  near  it  graves  unmarked  there  be 

That  cover  souls  of  royal  worth. 
The  flag  waves  o'er  them  in  the  sky 

Beneath  whose  stars  are  cities  born, 
And  round  them  mountain-castled  lie 

The  hundred  states  of  Oregon. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWOETH. 


Far  to  the  south  of  the  point  reached  by  Lewis 
and  Clark  lay  the  country  known  as  California. 
It  had  been  explored  by  the  Spaniards  as  early  as 
1540,  and  in  1769  an  expedition  under  Portala 
discovered  San  Francisco  Bay. 


DISCOVERY    OF    SAN    FRANCISCO 
BAY 

[October  31.  1769] 

GOOD  Junipero,  the  Padre, 

Slowly  read  the  King's  commands, 
In  relation  to  the  missions 

To  be  built  in  heathen  lands. 
And  he  said:   "The  good  Saint  Francis 

Surely  has  some  little  claim, 
Yet  I  find  that  here  no  mission 

Is  assigned  unto  his  name." 

Then  the  Visitador  answered : 

"If  the  holy  Francis  care 
For  a  mission  to  his  honor. 

Surely  he  will  lead  you  there; 
And  it  may  be  by  the  harbor 

That  the  Indian  legends  say 
Lies  by  greenest  hills  surrounded 

To  the  north  of  Monterey." 

Spoke  Junipero  the  Padre: 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  tell 
Of  the  truth  of  Indian  legends, 

Yet  of  this  I  know  full  well  — 
If  there  be  such  hidden  harbor, 

And  our  hope  and  trust  we  place 
In  the  care  of  good  Saint  Francis, 

He  will  guide  us  to  the  place." 


344 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Soon,  the  Governor  Portala 

Started  northward,  on  his  way 
Overland,  to  rediscover 

The  lost  port  of  Monterey. 
Since  the  time  within  its  waters 

Viscaino  anchor  cast, 
It  remained  unknown  to  Spaniards, 

Though  a  century  had  passed. 

On  his  journey  went  Portala 

With  his  band  of  pioneers, 
Padres,  Indian  guides,  and  soldiers, 

And  a  train  of  muleteers; 
And  said  Serra,  as  he  blessed  them, 

As  he  wished  them  all  Godspeed : 
'  Trust  Saint  Francis  —  he  will  guide  you 

In  your  direst  hour  of  need." 

On  his  journey  went  Portala 

Till  he  reached  the  crescent  bay; 
But  he  dreamed  not  he  was  gazing 

On  the  wished-for  Monterey. 
So  a  cross  on  shore  he  planted, 

And  the  ground  about  he  blessed, 
And  then  he  and  his  companions 

Northward  went  upon  their  quest. 

On  his  journey  went  Portala, 

And  his  army  northward  on, 
And  methinks  I  see  them  marching, 

Or  in  camp  when  day  was  done; 
Or  at  night  when  stars  were  twinkling, 

As  that  travel-weary  band 
By  the  log-fire's  light  would  gather, 

Telling  of  their  far-off  land. 

And  they  told  weird  Indian  legends, 

Tales  of  Cortes,  too,  they  told, 
And  of  peaceful  reign  of  Incas, 

And  of  Montezuma's  gold ; 
And  they  sang,  as  weary  exiles 

Sing  of  home  and  vanished  years, 
Sweet,  heart-treasured  songs  that  always 

Bring  the  dumb  applause  of  tears. 

When  the  day  was  sunk  in  ocean, 

And  the  land  around  was  dim, 
On  the  tranquil  air  of  midnight 

Rose  the  sweet  Franciscan  hymn; 
And  when  bugle  told  the  dawning, 

And  the  matin  prayers  were  done, 
On  his  journey  went  Portala, 

And  his  army  northward  on. 


Far  away  they  saw  sierras, 

Clothed  with  an  eternal  spring, 
While  at  times  the  mighty  ocean 

In  their  path  her  spray  would  fling; 
On  amid  such  scenes  they  journeyed, 

Through  the  dreary  wastes  of  sand, 
Through  ravines  dark,  deep,  and  nar 
row, 

And  through  canons  wild  and  grand. 

And  with  what  a  thrill  of  pleasure, 

All  their  toils  and  dangers  through, 
Gazed  they  on  this  scene  of  beauty 

When  it  burst  upon  their  view, 
As  Portala  and  his  army, 

Standing  where  I  stand  to-day, 
Saw  before  them  spread  in  beauty 

Green-clad  hills  and  noble  bay. 

Then  the  Governor  Portala 

Broke  the  spell  of  silence  thus: 
'To  this  place,  through  Padre  Serra, 

Hath  Saint  Francis  guided  us; 
So  the  bay  and  all  around  it 

For  the  Spanish  King  I  claim, 
And  forever,  in  the  future. 

Let  it  bear  Saint  Francis'  name." 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  I  am  standing 

On  the  self-same  spot  to-day, 
And  my  eyes  rest  on  the  landscape, 

And  the  green  hills,  and  the  bay, 
And  upon  Saint  Francis'  city, 

As,  with  youth  and  hope  elate, 
She  is  gazing  toward  the  ocean, 

Sitting  by  the  Golden  Gate. 

Needless  were  such  gifts  as  heaven 

Gave  to  holy  seers  of  yore. 
To  foretell  the  meed  of  glory, 

Fairest  town,  for  thee  in  store! 
To  foretell  the  seat  of  empire 

Here  will  be,  nor  for  a  day, 
Where  Balboa's  sea  doth  mingle 

With  the  waters  of  thy  bay! 

RICHARD  EDWARD  WHITE. 


In  1822  California  became  a  province  of 
Mexico,  and  in  1844  Colonel  John  Charles  Fr4- 
mont  reached  Suiter's  Fort  with  an  exploring  ex 
pedition.  Two  years  later,  during  the  war  with 
Mexico,  he  assumed  command  of  the  American 
forces  in  the  country,  and  established  the  author 
ity  of  the  United  States  there. 


THE   DAYS   OF   'FORTY-NINE 


345 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT 

PATHFINDER  —  and  Path-clincher! 

Who  blazed  the  way,  indeed, 
But  more  —  who  made  the  eternal  Fact 

Whereto  a  path  had  need ; 
Who,  while  our  Websters  set  at  naught 

The  thing  that  Was  to  Be, 
Whipped-out  our  halting,  half-way  map 

Full  to  the  Other  Sea! 

'T  was   well   that   there   were   some    could 
read 

The  logic  of  the  West! 
A  Kansas-edged  geography, 

Of  provinces  confessed, 
Became  potential  Union 

And  took  a  Nation's  span 
When  God  sent  Opportunity 

And  Benton  found  the  Man! 

CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 


In  1848  California  was  ceded  to  the  United 
States  by  Mexico.  In  the  same  year  gold  was 
discovered  near  Coloma,  and  within  a  few  months 
the  famous  rush  for  the  new  El  Dorado  began. 


"THE  DAYS  OF  'FORTY-NINE" 

You  are  looking  now  on  old  Tom  Moore, 

A  relic  of  bygone  days; 
A  Bummer,  too,  they  call  me  now, 

But  what  care  I  for  praise  ? 
For  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore, 

And  oft  I  do  repine 
For  the  Days  of  Old,  and  the  Days  of  Gold, 

And  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain  —  Oh,  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

I  had  comrades  then  who  loved  me  well, 

A  jovial,  saucy  crew: 
There  were  some  hard  cases,  I  must  confess, 

But  they  all  were  brave  and  true; 
Who  would  never  flinch,  whate'er  the  pinch, 

Who  never  would  fret  nor  whine, 
But   like  good  old    Bricks   they  stood   the 
kicks 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine. 

Refrain  —  And  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

There  was  Monte  Pete  —  I  '11  ne'er  forget 

The  luck  he  always  had. 
He  would  deal  for  you  both  day  and  night, 

So  long  as  you  had  a  scad. 


He  would  play  you  Draw,  he  would  Ante 

sling, 

He  would  go  you  a  hatfull  Blind  — 
But  in  a  game  with  Death  Pete  lost  his  breath 
In  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine. 

Refrain  —  Oh,  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

There  was  New  York  Jake,  a  butcher  boy, 

That  was  always  a-getting  tight; 
Whenever  Jake  got  on  a  spree, 

He  was  spoiling  for  a  fight. 
One  day  he  ran  against  a  knife 

In  the  hands  of  old  Bob  Cline  — 
So  over  Jake  we  held  a  wake, 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine. 

Refrain  — Oh,  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

There  was  Rackensack  Jim,  who  could  out- 
roar 

A  Buffalo  Bull,  you  bet! 
He  would  roar  all  night,  he  would  roar  all  day, 

And  I  b'lieve  he 's  a-roaring  yet ! 
One  night  he  fell  in  a  prospect-hole  — 

'T  was  a  roaring  bad  design  — 
For  in  that  hole  he  roared  out  his  soul 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine. 
Refrain  —  Oh,  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

There  was  Poor  Lame  Ches,  a  hard  old  case 

Who  never  did  repent. 
Ches  never  missed  a  single  meal, 

Nor  he  never  paid  a  cent. 
But  Poor  Lame  Ches,  like  all  the  rest, 

Did  to  death  at  last  resign. 
For  all  in  his  bloom  he  went  up  the  Flume 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine. 

Refrain  —  Oh,  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 

And  now  my  comrades  all  are  gone, 

Not  one  remains  to  toast; 
They  have  left  me  here  in  my  misery, 

Like  some  poor  wandering  ghost. 
And  as  I  go  from  place  to  place. 

Folks  call  me  a  "Travelling  Sign," 
Saying  "There  goes  Tom  Moore,  a  Bummer, 
sure, 

From  the  Days  of  'Forty-Nine." 

Refrain  —  But  my  heart  is  filled,  etc. 


Most  of  the  emigrants  crossed  the  plains,  en 
countering  dangers  and  hardships  innumerable. 
The  trails  were  soon  marked  by  the  skeletons  of 
horses  and  oxen,  and  by  the  graves  of  those  who 
had  perished  from  hardship  or  been  butchered  by 
the  Indians. 


346 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  OLD  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 

IT  wound  through  strange  scarred  hills,  down 

canons  lone 
Where  wild  things  screamed,  with  winds  for 

company ; 

Its  mile-stones  were  the  bones  of  pioneers. 
Bronzed,    haggard    men,    often    with    thirst 

a-moan, 
Lashed  on  their  beasts  of  burden  toward  the 

sea: 

An  epic  quest  it  was  of  elder  years, 
For  fabled  gardens  or  for  good,  red  gold, 
The  trail  men  strove  in  iron  days  of  old. 

To-day  the  steam-god  thunders  through  the 

vast, 

Whiledominant  Saxons  from  the  hurtling  trains 
Smile  at  the  aliens,  Mexic,  Indian, 
Who  offer  wares,  keen-colored,  like  their  past; 
Dread  dramas  of  immitigable  plains 
Rebuke  the  softness  of  the  modern  man; 
No  menace,  now,  the  desert's  mood  of  sand ; 
Still  westward  lies  a  green  and  golden  land. 

For,  at  the  magic  touch  of  water,  blooms 
The  wilderness,  and  where  of  yore  the  yoke 
Tortured  the  toilers  into  dateless  tombs, 
Lo!  brightsome  fruits  to  feed  a  mighty  folk. 
RICHARD  BUIITON. 

The  importance  of  the  new  country  grew  so 
rapidly  that  on  September  9,  1850,  California  was 
admitted  to  the  Union,  the  thirty-first  state. 


CALIFORNIA 

[September  9,  1850) 

LAND  of  gold !  —  thy  sisters  greet  thee, 
O'er  the  mountain  and  the  main; 

See,  —  they  stretch  the  hand  to  meet  thee, 
Youngest  of  our  household  train. 

Many  a  form  their  love  hath  fostered 
Lingers  'neath  thy  sunny  sky, 

And  their  spirit-tokens  brighten 
Every  link  of  sympathy. 

We  'mid  storms  of  war  were  cradled, 
'Mid  the  shock  of  angry  foes; 

Thou,  with  sudden,  dreamlike  splendor, 
Pallas-born,  —  in  vigor  rose. 

Children  of  one  common  country, 
Strong  in  friendship  let  us  stand, 

With  united  ardor  earning 
Glory  for  our  Mother  Land. 

They  of  gold  and  they  of  iron, 
They  who  reap  the  bearded  wheat, 

They  who  rear  the  snowy  cotton, 
Pour  their  treasures  at  her  feet; 

While  with  smiling  exultation, 
She,  who  marks  their  filial  part, 

Like  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi, 
Folds  her  jewels  to  her  heart. 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOCRNEY. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THROUGH    FIVE   ADMINISTRATIONS 


Although  Aaron  Burr  had  been  acquitted  of  the 
charge  of  treason,  the  persecution  of  him  still 
continued.  He  was  practically  run  out  of  the 
country,  and  when  he  returned  at  last  in  1812, 
it  was  in  disguise,  under  the  name  of  Arnat. 
Fate  soon  afterwards  dealt  him  a  cruel  blow,  for 
in  January,  1813,  his  daughter,  Theodosia,'  the 
idol  of  his  heart,  perished  at  sea  while  on  a  voyage 
from  Charleston  to  New  York. 

THEODOSIA   BURR: 

THE  WRECKER'S  STORY 

(January,  1813] 

IN  revel  and  carousing 

We  gave  the  New  Year  housing, 


With  wreckage  for  our  firing, 
And  rum  to  heart's  desiring, 
Antigua  and  Jamaica, 
Flagon  and  stoup  and  breaker. 
Full  cans  and  a  ranting  chorus; 
Hard  hearts  for  the  bout  before  us 
To  brave  grim  Death's  grimaces 
On  dazed  and  staring  faces. 

With  dirks  and  hangers  bristling, 
We  for  a  gale  went  whistling, 
Tornado  or  pampero, 
To  swamp  the  host  of  Pharaoh ; 
To  goad  the  mad  Atlantic, 
And  drive  the  skippers  frantic; 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COMMODORE  OLIVER  H.  PERRY     347 


To  jar  the  deep  with  thunder, 
And  make  the  waste  a  wonder, 
And  plunge  the  coasters  under, 
And  pile  the  banks  with  plunder. 

Then  the  wild  rack  came  skirling, 
Ragged  and  crazed,  and  whirling 
Sea-stuff  and  sand  in  breakers, 
Frothing  the  shelvy  acres: 
Over  the  banks  high  bounding, 
Inlet  and  sound  confounding. 
Hatteras  roared  and  rumbled, 
Currituck  heaved  and  tumbled; 
And  the  sea-gulls  screamed  like  witches, 
And  sprawled  in  the  briny  ditches. 

Shelter  and  rest  we  flouted, 

Jorum  and  pipe  we  scouted, 

Fiddler  and  wench  we  routed. 
'Fetch  out  the  nag!"  we  shouted; 

For  a  craft  in  the  offing  struggled. 
"Now  for  a  skipper  juggled; 

Now  for  a  coaster  stranded, 

And  loot  in  the  lockers  landed!" 

With  lantern  cheerly  rocking 

On  the  nag's  head,  we  went  mocking  — 

Lilting  of  tipsy  blisses, 

And  Bonnibel's  squandered  kisses. 

Straight  for  that  hell-spark  steering, 

Drove  the  doomed  craft  careering; 

Men  on  her  fore-deck  huddled, 

Sea  in  her  wake  all  cruddled, 

Kitty  Hawk  sheer  before  her, 

And  the  breakers  booming  o'er  her. 

Till  the  rocks  in  their  lurking  stove  her, 

And  her  riven  spars  went  over, 

And  she  lay  on  her  side  and  shivered, 

And  groaned  to  be  delivered. 

Boats  through  the  black  rift  storming, 
Foes  on  her  quarter  swarming; 
Dirks  in  the  torchlight  flashing, 
And  the  wicked  hangers  slashing; 
Lips  that  were  praying  mangled. 
Throats  that  were  screaming,  strangled; 
Souls  in  the  surges  tumbling, 
Vainly  for  foothold  fumbling; 
Horror  of  staring  faces, 
Gruesome  in  Death's  grimaces  — 
And  God's  wrath  overpast  us, 
With  never  a  bolt  to  blast  us! 

By  the  brunt  of  our  doings  daunted, 

We  crouched  where  the  fore-deck  slanted, 


Scanning  each  other's  faces, 
Graved  with  that  horror's  traces. 
One,  peering  aft,  wild-staring. 
Points  through  the  torches  flaring: 
'  Spook  of  the  storm,  or  human  ? 
Angel,  or  wraith,  or  woman  ? " 
Havoc  and  wreck  surveying, 
Imploring  not,  nor  praying, 
Nor  death  nor  life  refusing; 
Stony  and  still  —  accusing ! 

Black  as  our  hearts  the  creature's 

Vesture,  her  matchless  features 

White  as  the  dead.   Oh!  wonder 

Of  women  high  heaven  under! 

So  she  moved  down  upon  us 

(Though   Death  and  the  Fiend  might 

shun  us), 

And  we  made  passage,  cowering. 
Rigid  and  mute  and  towering, 
Never  a  frown  she  deigned  us, 
Never  with  curse  arraigned  us. 
One,  trembling,  dropped  his  hanger, 
And  swooned  at  the  awful  clangor; 
But  she  passed  on,  unharking, 
Her  steps  our  doom-strokes  marking, 
Straight  to  the  plank,  and  mounted. 
'One,  two,  three,  four!"  we  counted; 
Till  she  paused,  o'er  the  flood  suspended, 
Poised,  her  lithe  arms  extended.  — 
And  the  storm  stood  still  and  waited 
For  the  stroke  of  the  Lord,  belated ! 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 


Oliver  Hazard  Perry,  the  victor  of  Lake  Erie, 
while  in  command  of  a  squadron  in  the  West 
Indies,  in  the  summer  of  1819,  was  attacked  by 
yellow  fever,  and  died  after  a  brief  illness.  His 
body  was  brought  to  the  United  States  in  1826 
and  buried  at  Newport. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COMMODORE 
OLIVER  H.   PERRY 

By  strangers  honor'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd. 
[August  23,  1819) 

How  sad  the  note  of  that  funereal  drum, 

That's  muffled  by  indifference  to  the  dead! 
And  how  reluctantly  the  echoes  come, 
On  air  that  sighs  not  o'er  that  stranger's 

bed, 

Who  sleeps  with  death  alone.    O'er  his 
young  head 


348 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


His  native  breezes  never  more  shall  sigh; 
On  his  lone  grave  the  careless  step  shall 

tread, 

And  pestilential  vapors  soon  shall  dry 
Each  shrub  that  buds  around  —  each  flow'r 

that  blushes  nigh. 

Let  Genius,  poising  on  her  full-fledg'd  wing, 
Fill  the  charm'd   air   with   thy  deserved 

praise ! 

Of  war,  and  blood,  and  carnage  let  her  sing, 
Of  victory  and  glory !  —  let  her  gaze 
On  the  dark  smoke  that  shrouds  the  can 
non's  blaze, 

On  the  red  foam  that  crests  the  bloody  bil 
low; 
Then  mourn  the  sad  close  of  thy  shorten 'd 

days  — 

Place  on  thy  country's  brow  the  weeping  wil 
low, 

And  plant  the  laurels  thick  around  thy  last 
cold  pillow. 

No  sparks  of  Grecian  fire  to  me  belong: 
Alike  uncouth  the  poet  and  the  lay; 

Unskill'd  to  turn  the  mighty  tide  of  song, 
He  floats  along  the  current  as  he  may, 
The  humble  tribute  of  a  tear  to  pay. 

Another  hand  may  choose  another  theme, 
May  sing  of  Nelson's  last  and  brightest 
day, 

Of  Wolfe's  unequall'd  and  unrivall'd  fame, 

The  wave  of  Trafalgar  —  the  fields  of  Abra 
ham: 

But  if  the  wild  winds  of  thy  western  lake 
Might  teach  a  harp  that  fain  would  mourn 

the  brave, 
And  sweep  those  strings  the  minstrel  may  not 

wake, 

Or  give  an  echo  from  some  secret  cave 
That  opens  on  romantic  Erie's  wave, 
The  feeble  cord  would  not  be  swept  in  vain ; 
And  though  the  sound  might  never  reach 

thy  grave, 

Yet  there  are  spirits  here  that  to  the  strain 
Would  send  a  still  small  voice  responsive  back 
again. 

JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

The  death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  on  Sep 
tember  21,  1820,  deserves  mention  here,  not  so 
much  because  of  Drake's  prominence  as  a  poet 
as  because  of  the  admirable  lyric  which  it  called 
forth  —  one  of  the  most  perfect  in  American  lit 
erature. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  ROD 
MAN  DRAKE 

[September  21,  1820] 

GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  prover. 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine: 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 


In  1824,  at  the  invitation  of  Congress  and  Presi 
dent  Monroe,  the  Marquis  de  Lafayette,  who  had 
played  so  important  a  part  in  the  revolution, 
visited  the  United  States.  He  arrived  in  New 
York  August  15,  and  for  the  next  fourteen  months 
travelled  through  the  country,  visiting  every 
state,  and  being  everywhere  received  with  rev 
erence  and  affection.  On  June  17,  1825,  he  laid 
the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument. 

ON  LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE 
OF  THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONU 
MENT 

[June  17,  1825] 

OH,  is  not  this  a  holy  spot  ? 

'T  is  the  high  place  of  Freedom's  birth ! 
God  of  our  fathers!  is  it  not 

The  holiest  spot  of  all  the  earth  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   JEFFERSON 


349 


Quenched  is  thy  flame  on  Horeb's  side; 

The  robber  roams  o'er  Sinai  now; 
And  those  old  men,  thy  seers,  abide 

No  more  on  Zion's  mournful  brow. 


But  on  this  hill  thou.  Lord,  hast  dwelt, 
Since  round  its  head  the  war-cloud  curled, 

And  wrapped  our  fathers,  where  they  knelt 
In  prayer  and  battle  for  a  world. 

Here  sleeps  their  dust:  't  is  holy  ground: 
And  we,  the  children  of  the  brave, 

From  the  four  winds  are  gathering  round, 
To  lay  our  offering  on  their  grave. 

Free  as  the  winds  around  us  blow, 
Free  as  the  waves  below  us  spread, 

We  rear  a  pile,  that  long  shall  throw 
Its  shadow  on  their  sacred  bed. 

But  on  their  deeds  no  shade  shall  fall, 
While  o'er  their  couch  thy  sun  shall  flame. 

Thine  ear  was  bowed  to  hear  their  call, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  guard  their  fame. 
JOHN  PIERPONT. 


Lafayette's  sixty-eighth  birthday  was  cele 
brated  at  the  White  House  September  6,  1825. 
and  he  sailed  next  day  for  France,  where  he  died 
May  20,  1834.  The  verses  by  Dolly  Madison  which 
follow  were  only  recently  discovered. 


LA  FAYETTE 

BORN,  nurtured,  wedded,  prized,  within  the 

pale 
Of  peers  and  princes,  high  in  camp  —  at 

court  — 

He  hears,  in  joyous  youth,  a  wild  report, 
Swelling  the  murmurs  of  the  Western  gale, 
Of  a  young  people  struggling  to  be  free! 
Straight  quitting  all,  across  the  wave  he 

flies, 
Aids  with  his  sword,  wealth,  blood,  the  high 

emprize ! 
And  shares  the  glories  of  its  victory. 

Then  comes   for   fifty  years   a    high   ro 
mance 
Of  toils,  reverses,  sufferings,  in  the  cause 

Of  man  and  justice,  liberty  and  France, 
Crowned,  at   the  last,  with  hope  and  wide 
applause. 


Champion  of  Freedom!  Well  thy  race  was  run! 
All  time  shall  hail  thee,  Europe's  noblest  Son  I 

DOLLY  MADISON. 
Washington,  April  25,  1848. 

John  Adams,  second  President  of  the  United 
States,  died  at  his  home  in  Braintree,  Mass.,  July 
4,  1826.  His  last  words  were,  "Thomas  Jefferson 
still  lives."  But  by  a  curious  coincidence,  Jeffer 
son  had  died  at  his  home,  Monticello,  in  Albe- 
marle  County,  Va.,  a  few  hours  before. 

THE  DEATH  OF  JEFFERSON 

[July  4,  1826] 
I 

'TwAS  midsummer;   cooling  breezes  all  the 

languid  forests  fanned, 
And  the  angel  of  the  evening  drew  her  curtain 

o'er  the  land. 
Like  an  isle  rose   Monticello  through   the 

cooled  and  rippling  trees, 
Like  an  isle  in  rippling  starlight  in  the  silence 

of  the  seas. 
Ceased  the  mocking-bird  his  singing;    said 

the  slaves  with  faltering  breath, 
"  'T  is  the  Third,  and  on  the  morrow  Heaven 

will  send  the  Angel  Death." 


In  his  room  at  Monticello,  lost  in  dreams  the 

statesman  slept, 
Seeing  not  the  still  forms  round  him,  seeing 

not  the  eyes  that  wept, 
Hearing  not  the  old  clock  ticking  in  life's 

final  silence  loud, 
Knowing  not  when  night  came  o'er  him  like 

the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
In  the  past  his  soul  is  living  as  in  fifty  years 

ago, 
Hastes  again  to  Philadelphia,  hears  again  the 

Schuylkill  flow  — 

in 

Meets  again  the  elder  Adams  —  knowing  not 

that  far  away 
He  is  waiting  for  Death's  morrow,  on  old 

Massachusetts  Bay; 
Meets  with   Hancock,   young  and   courtly, 

meets  with  Hopkins,  bent  and  old, 
Meets  again  calm  Roger  Sherman,  fiery  Lee, 

and  Carroll  bold. 
Meets  the  sturdy  form  of  Franklin,  meets  the 

half  a  hundred  men 
Who    have    made   themselves    immortal,  — 

breathes  the  ancient  morn  again. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Once  again  the  Declaration  in  his  nerveless 
hands  he  holds, 

And  before  the  waiting  statesmen  its  pro 
phetic  hope  unfolds,  — 

Reads  again  the  words  puissant,  "All  men 
are  created  free," 

Claims  again  for  man  his  birthright,  claims 
the  world's  equality ; 

Hears  the  coming  and  the  going  of  an  hundred 
firm-set  feet, 

Hears  the  summer  breezes  blowing  'mid  the 
oak  trees  cool  and  sweet. 


Sees  again  tall  Patrick  Henry  by  the  side  of 
Henry  Lee,  ,  . 

Hears  him  cry,  "And  will  ye  sign  it  ?  —  it  will 
make  all  nations  free! 

Fear  ye  not  the  axe  or  gibbet;  it  shall  topple 
every  throne. 

Sign  it  for  the  world's  redemption !  —  all  man 
kind  its  truth  shall  own! 

Stars  may  fall,  but  truth  eternal  shall  not 
falter,  shall  not  fail. 

Sign  it,  and  the  Declaration  shall  the  voice  of 
ages  hail. 

VI 

"  Sign,  and  set  yon  dumb  bell  ringing,  that  the 
people  all  may  know 

Man  has  found  emancipation;  sign,  the  Al 
mighty  wills  it  so." 

Sees  one  sign  it,  then  another,  till  like  magic 
moves  the  pen, 

Till  all  have  signed  it,  and  it  lies  there, 
charter  of  the  rights  of  men. 

Hears  the  small  bells,  hears  the  great  bell, 
hanging  idly  in  the  sun, 

Break  the  silence,  and  the  people  whisper, 
awe-struck,  "It  is  done." 

VII 

Then  the  dream  began  to  vanish  —  bur 
gesses,  the  war's  red  flames, 

Charging  Tarleton,  proud  Cornwallis,  navies 
moving  on  the  James, 

Years  of  peace,  and  years  of  glory,  all  began 
to  melt  away, 

And  the  statesman  woke  from  slumber  in  the 
night,  and  tranquil  lay, 

And  his  lips  moved ;  friends  there  gathered 
with  love's  silken  footstep  near, 

And  he  whispered,  softly  whispered  in  love's 
low  and  tender  ear,  — 


"It  is  the  Fourth ?"  "No,  not  yet,"  they  an 
swered,  "  but 't  will  soon  be  early  morn ; 

We  will  wake  you,  if  you  slumber,  when  the 
day  begins  to  dawn." 

Then  the  statesman  left  the  present,  lived 
again  amid  the  past, 

Saw,  perhaps,  the  peopled  future  ope  its 
portals  grand  and  vast, 

Till  the  flashes  of  the  morning  lit  the  far 
horizon  low, 

And  the  sun's  rays  o'er  the  forests  in  the  east 
began  to  glow. 

IX 

Rose  the  sun,  and  from  the  woodlands  fell  the 
midnight  dews  like  rain, 

In  magnolias  cool  and  shady  sang  the  mock 
ing-bird  again; 

And  the  statesman  woke  from  slumber,  saw 
the  risen  sun,  and  heard 

Rippling  breezes  'mid  the  oak  trees,  and  the 
lattice  singing  bird. 

And,  his  eye  serene  uplifted,  as  rejoicing  in  the 
sun, 

"It  is  the  Fourth?"  his  only  question,  —  to 
the  world  his  final  one. 


Silence  fell  on  Monticello  —  for  the  last  dread 

hour  was  near, 
And  the  old  clock's  measured  ticking  only 

broke  upon  the  ear. 
All  the  summer  rooms  were  silent,  where  the 

great  of  earth  had  trod, 
All  the  summer  blooms  seemed  silent  as  the 

messengers  of  God ; 
Silent  were  the  hall  and  chamber  where  old 

councils  oft  had  met, 
Save  the  far  boom  of  the  cannon  that  recalled 

the  old  day  yet. 


Silent  still  is  Monticello  —  he  is  breathing 
slowly  now, 

In  the  splendors  of  the  noon-tide,  with  the 
death-dew  on  his  brow  — 

Silent  save  the  clock  still  ticking  where  his 
soul  had  given  birth 

To  the  mighty  thoughts  of  freedom,  that 
should  free  the  fettered  earth ; 

Silent  save  the  boom  of  cannon  on  the  sun- 
filled  wave  afar, 

Bringing  'mid  the  peace  eternal  still  the 
memory  of  war. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 


xn 

Evening  in  majestic  shadows  fell  upon  the 
fortress'  walls; 

Sweetly  were  the  last  bells  ringing  on  the 
James  and  on  the  Charles. 

'Mid  the  choruses  of  freedom  two  departed 
victors  lay, 

One  beside  the  blue  Rivanna,  one  by  Massa 
chusetts  Bay. 

He  was  gone,  and  night  her  sable  curtain 
drew  across  the  sky; 

Gone  his  soul  into  all  nations,  gone  to  live  and 
not  to  die. 

HEZEKIAH  BCTTERWORTH. 


On  September  14.  1830,  the  Boston  Adver 
tiser  contained  a  paragraph  asserting  that  the 
Secretary  of  the  Navy  had  recommended  to  the 
Hoard  of  Navy  Commissioners  that  the  old  frigate 
Constitution,  popularly  known  as  "  Old  Ironsides," 
be  disposed  of.  Two  days  later  appeared  the 
famous  poem  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  which 
instantly  became  a  sort  of  national  battle-cry. 
Instead  of  being  sold,  the  Constitution  was  rebuilt. 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

[September  14,  1830) 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high. 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

Th<*  lightning  and  the  gale! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


CONCORD  HYMN 

SUNG   AT   THE   COMPLETION    OF   THE    BATTLE 
MONUMENT,  APRIL   19,  1836 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
*And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down   the  dark   stream   which    seaward 
creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


On  December  17,  1839,  Longfellow  wrote  in 
his  journal:  "N-^ws  of  shipwrecks  horrible  on 
the  coast.  Twenty  bodies  washed  ashore  near 
Gloucester,  one  lashed  to  a  piece  of  the  wreck. 
There  is  a  reef  called  Norman's  Woe  where  many 
of  these  took  place;  among  others  the  schooner 
Hesperus.  Also  the  Sea-Flower  on  Black  Rock.  I 
must  write  a  ballad  on  this."  It  was  written 
twelve  days  later. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 

[December  17,  1839] 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did 
blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 


352 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see!" 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 
steed. 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  little  daugh 
ter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  O  father !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast ! "  — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea!" 

"O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 

snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 


Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 
wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  wavec 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts,  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho !  ho !  the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  WToe ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


The  presidential  campaign  of  1840  was  the 
most  exciting  that  had  ever  taken  place  in  the 
United  States.  William  Henry  Harrison  was  the 
candidate  of  the  Whigs  and  Martin  Van  Buren 
of  the  Democrats.  Harrison  was  elected  by  an 
overwhelming  majority. 


THE   DEATH   OF  HARRISON 


353 


OLD   TIPPECANOE 

[October,  November,  1840J 

COME,  rouse  up,  ye  bold-hearted  Whigs  of 

Kentucky, 
And  show  the  nation  what  deeds  you  can 

do; 

]     The  high-road  to  victory  lies  open  before  ye 
While  led  to  the  charge  by  Old  Tippecanoe. 

When  Indians  were  scalping  our  friends  and 

our  brothers, 

To  Ohio's  frontier  he  gallantly  flew; 
And    thousands    of    innocent    infants,    and 

mothers, 
Were  saved  by  the  valor  of  Tippecanoe. 

When   savage  Tecumseh   was  rallying    his 

forces, 

In  innocent  blood  his  hands  to  imbrue; 
Our  hero  despis'd  all  his  bloody  associates. 
And  won  the  proud  name  of  Old  Tippe 
canoe. 

And  when  this  Tecumseh  and  his  brother 

Proctor, 
To  capture  Fort  Meigs  their  utmost  did 

do; 

Our  gallant  old  hero  again  play'd  the  Doctor, 
And  gave  them  a  dose  like  at  Tippecanoe. 

And  then  on  the  Thames,  on  the  fifth  of 

October, 

Where  musket  balls  whizz'd  as  they  flew; 
He  blasted  their  prospects,  and  rent  them 

asunder, 
Just  like  he  had  done  on  the  Tippecanoe. 

Let  Greece  praise  the  deeds  of  her  great 
Alexander 

And  Rome  boast  of  Csesar  and  Scipio  too; 
Just  like  Cincinnatus,  that  noble  commander, 

Is  our  old  Hero  of  Tippecanoe. 

For  when  the  foes  of  his  country  no  longer 

could  harm  her, 
To  the  shades  of  retirement  he  quickly 

withdrew ; 
And  now  at  North  Bend  see  the  HONEST  OLD 

FARMER, 

Who  won  the  green  laurel  at  Tippecanoe. 

And  when  to  the  National  Council  elected, 
The  good  of  his  country  still  see  him  pursue, 


And  every  poor  man  by  him  thus  protected, 
Should  ever  remember  "Old  Tippecanoe." 

And  now  from  retirement  the  People  doth 
call  him, 

Because  he  is  Honest  and  Qualified  too; 
And  for  One  Term  they  soon  will  install  him 

As  President  —  "Hero  of  Tippecanoe." 

Let  knaves  call  him  "coward,"  and  fools  call 

him  "granny" 
To  answer  their  purpose  —  this  never  will 

do; 
When  rallied  around  him  we'll  rout  little 

Vanny, 

And  give  him  a  Thames  —  or  a  full  Water 
loo. 

The  Republican  banner  of  Freedom  is  flying, 
The  Eagle  of  Liberty  soars  in  your  view; 

Then  rally  my  hearties  —  all  slanders  defy 
ing, 
And  thunder  huzza !  for  "  Old  Tippecanoe." 

Among  the  supporters  of  brave  General  Jack 
son, 
There  are  many  Republicans,  honest  and 

true, 
To  such  we  say  "come  out  from  among 

them," 
And  "go  it  for"  Tyler  and  "Tippecanoe." 


Harrison  was  inaugurated  March  4,  1841.  He 
was  at  that  time  sixty-eight  years  of  age,  but  he 
took  up  the  work  of  his  office  with  a  vigor  almost 
youthful.  On  March  27,  however,  he  contracted 
a  chill,  pneumonia  developed,  and  he  died  April  4. 
The  vice-president,  John  Tyler,  at  once  took  the 
oath  of  office  as  president. 


THE   DEATH   OF  HARRISON 

[April  4,  1841] 

WHAT!  soar'd  the  old  eagle  to  die  at  the  sun! 
Lies  he  stiff  with  spread  wings  at  the  goal 

he  had  won! 
Are  there  spirits  more  blest  than  the  "  Planet 

of  Even," 
Who  mount  to  their  zenith,  then  melt  into 

Heaven  — 

No  waning  of  fire,  no  quenching  of  ray. 
But  rising,  still  rising,  when  passing  away? 
Farewell,  gallant  eagle !  thou  'rt  buried  in  light '. 
God-speed  into  Heaven,  lost  star  of  our  night  1 


354 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Death !  Death  in  the  White  House !  Ah,  never 

before, 
Trod   his   skeleton   foot  on   the   President's 

floor! 
He  is  look'd  for  in  hovel,  and  dreaded  in 

hall  — 
The  king  in  his  closet  keeps  hatchment  and 

pall  — 
The  youth  in  his  birthplace,  the  old  man  at 

home, 
Make  clean  from  the  door-stone  the  path  to 

the  tomb ;  — 
But  the  lord  of  this  mansion  was  cradled  not 

here  — 
In  a  churchyard  far-off  stands  his  beckoning 

bier! 
He  is  here  as  the  wave-crest  heaves  flashing 

on  high  — 
As  the  arrow  is  stopp'd  by  its  prize  in  the 

sky  — 
The  arrow  to  earth,  and  the  foam  to  the 

shore  — 
Death  finds  them  when  swiftness  and  sparkle 

are  o'er  — 

But  Harrison's  death  fills  the  climax  of  story  — 
He  went  with  his  old  stride  —  from  glory  to 

glory ! 

Lay  his  sword  on  his  breast!    There's  no 

spot  on  its  blade 
In  whose  cankering  breath  his  bright  laurels 

will  fade! 

'T  was  the  first  to  lead  on  at  humanity's  call  — 
It  was  stay'd  with  sweet  mercy  when  "glory" 

was  all! 

As  calm  in  the  council  as  gallant  in  war, 
He  fought  for  its  country  and  not  its  "hur 
rah!" 


In  the  path  of  the  hero  with  pity  he  trod  — 
Let   him    pass  —  with    his   sword  —  to   the 
presence  of  God! 

What  more  ?  Shall  we  on  with  his  ashes  ?  Yet, 

stay! 
He  hath  ruled  the  wide  realm  of  a  king  in  his 

day! 
At  his  word,  like  a  monarch's,  went  treasure 

and  land  — 
The   bright   gold   of   thousands   has   pass'd 

through  his  hand. 

Is  there  nothing  to  show  of  his  glittering  hoard  ? 
No  jewel  to  deck  the  rude  hilt  of  his  sword  — 
No  trappings  —  no  horses  ?  —  what  had  he, 

but  now  ? 
On !  —  on  with  his  ashes !  —  HE  LEFT  BUT 

HIS  PLOUGH  ! 

Follow  now,  as  ye  list !  The  first  mourner  to-day 
Is  the  nation  —  whose  father  is  taken  away ! 
Wife,  children,  and  neighbor,  may  moan  on 

his  knell  — 
He  was  "lover  and  friend"  to  his  country, 

as  well ! 
For  the  stars  on  our  banner,  grown  suddenly 

dim, 
Let  us  weep,  in  our  darkness  —  but  weep  not 

for  him ! 
Not  for  him  —  who,  departing,  leaves  millions 

in  tears! 
Not  for  him  —  who  has  died  full  of  honor  and 


years 


Not  for  him  —  who  ascended  Fame's  ladder 

so  high 
From  the  round  at  the  top  he  has  stepp'd  to 

the  sky! 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 


CHAPTER   V 


THE   WAR  WITH    MEXICO 


In  '1821  Mexico  acquired  her  independence  of 
Spain,  but  the  country  became  the  prey  of  mili 
tary  adventurers,  who  were  made  presidents  by 
proclamation,  and  retained  office  as  long  as  they 
had  an  army  to  support  them.  In  1834  Santa 
Anna,  who  was  in  power  at  the  time,  abolished 
the  constitution  and  established  a  military  despot 
ism.  The  citizens  of  the  province  of  Texas,  which 
had  been  largely  settled  from  the  United  States, 
revolted  and  declared  their  independence.  General 
Cos,  the  military  governor,  and  fifteen  hundred 
men,  were  besieged  at  Bejar,  and  forced  to  sur 


render,  after  a  desperate  assault  led  by  Benjamin 

R.  Mi  lam. 

THE  VAL©R  ©F  BEN  MILAM 

[December  5-11,  1835] 

Off,  who  will  follow  old  Ben  Milam  into  San 

Anlonio  ? 
Such  was  the  thrilling  word  we  heard  in  the 

chill  December  glow; 


THE   MEN   OF  THE  ALAMO 


355 


Such  was  the  thrilling  word  we  heard,  and  a 

ringing,  answering  cry 
Went  up  from  the  dun  adobe  walls  to  the 

cloudless  Texas  sky. 

He  had  won  from  the  reek  of  a  Mexique  jail 

back  without  map  or  chart, 
With  his  mother-wit  and  his  hero-grit  and  his 

stanch  Kentucky  heart; 
He  had  trudged  by  vale  and  by  mountain  trail, 

and  by  thorny  and  thirsty  plain. 
And  now,  with  joy  on  his  grizzled  brow,  he  had 

come  to  his  own  again. 

They'' re  the  spawn  of  Hell !  we  heard  him  tell; 

they  will  knife  and  lie  and  cheat ; 
At  the  board  of  none  of  the  swarthy  horde  would 

I  deign  to  sit  at  meat ; 
They  hold  it  naught  that  I  bled  and  fought 

when  Spain  was  their  ruth 'ess  foe; 
Oh,  who  will  follow  old  Ben  Milam  into  San 

Antonio  ? 

It  was  four  to  one,  not  gun  for  gun,  but  never 
a  curse  cared  we. 

Three  hundred  faithful  and  fearless  men  who 
had  sworn  to  make  Texas  free. 

It  was  mighty  odds,  by  all  the  gods,  this  brute 
of  the  Mexique  dam, 

But  it  was  not  much  for  heroes  such  as  fol 
lowed  old  Ben  Milam! 

With  rifle-crack  and   sabre-hack  we  drove 

them  back  in  the  street; 
From  house  to  house  in  the  red  carouse  we 

hastened  their  flying  feet; 
And  ever  that  shout  kept  pealing  out  with  a 

swift  and  sure  death-blow : 
Oh,  who  will  follow  old  Ben  Milam  into  San 

Antonio  f 

Behind  the  walls  from  the  hurtling  balls  Cos 

cowered  and  swore  in  his  beard, 
While  we  slashed  and  slew  from  dawn  till  dew, 

and,  Bexar,  how  we  cheered ! 
But   ere   failed   each    ruse,  and    the    white 

of    truce    on    the    failing    day    was 

thrown, 
Our  fearless  soul  had  gone  to  the  goal,  the 

Land  of  the  Great  Unknown. 

Death  brought  the  darksome  boon  too  soon  to 

this  truest  one  of  the  true, 
Or,  men  of  the  fated  Alamo,  Milam  had  died 

with  you! 


So  when  their  names  that  now  are  Fame's  — 
the  scorner  of  braggart  sham ;  — 

In  song  be  praised,  let  a  rouse  be  raised  for 
the  name  of  Ben  Milam ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

BEN  MILAM 

OFT  shall  the  soldier  think  of  thee, 
Thou  dauntless  leader  of  the  brave, 

Who  on  the  heights  of  Tyranny 
Won  Freedom  and  a  glorious  grave. 

And  o'er  thy  tomb  shall  pilgrims  weep, 
And  pray  to  heaven  in  murmurs  low 

That  peaceful  be  the  hero's  sleep 
Who  conquered  San  Antonio. 

Enshrined  on  Honor's  deathless  scroll, 
A  nation's  thanks  will  tell  thy  fame; 

Long  as  her  beauteous  rivers  roll 

Shall  Freedom's  votaries  hymn  thy  name. 

For  bravest  of  the  Texan  clime, 
WTho  fought  to  make  her  children  free, 

Was  Milam,  and  his  death  sublime 
Linked  with  undying  Liberty! 

WILLIAM  H.  WHARTON. 

On  February  23,  1836,  Santa  Anna  appeared  at 
the  head  of  two  thousand  men  before  San  Antonio. 
The  town  was  guarded  by  a  fort  called  the  Alamo, 
held  by  Colonel  William  Travis  and  one  hundred 
and  fifty  Texans.  Travis  sent  to  Gonzales  for 
reinforcements  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  fort. 
A  few  days  later,  thirty-two  men  got  through  the 
Mexican  lines,  swelling  his  force  to  one  hundred 
and  eighty-three.  After  a  terrific  struggle,  the 
Mexicans  carried  the  fort  on  March  6.  Not  one  of 
the  garrison  survived. 

THE  MEN  OF  THE  ALAMO 

[February  23-March  6,  1836] 

To  Houston  at  Gonzales  town,  ride,  Ranger, 

for  your  life, 
Nor  stop  to  say  good-bye  to-day  to  home,  or 

child,  or  wife; 
But  pass  the  word  from  ranch  to  ranch,  to 

every  Texan  sword, 
That  fifty  hundred  Mexicans  have  crossed  the 

Nueces  ford, 
With  Castrillon  and  perjured  Cos,  Sesma  and 

Almonte, 
And  Santa  Anna  ravenous  for  vengeance  and 

for  prey! 


356 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


They  smite  the  land  with  fire  and  sword ;  the 

grass  shall  never  grow 
Where  northward  sweeps  that  locust  herd  on 

San  Antonio! 

Now  who  will  bar  the  foeman's  path,  to  gain 

a  breathing  space, 
Till  Houston  and  his  scattered  men  shall  meet 

him  face  to  face? 
Who  holds  his  life  as  less  than  naught  when 

home  and  honor  call, 
And  counts  the  guerdon  full  and  fair  for 

liberty  to  fall  ? 
Oh,  who  but  Barrett  Travis,  the  bravest  of 

them  all.1 
With  seven  score  of  riflemen  to  play  the 

rancher's  game, 
And  feed  a  counter-fire  to  halt  the  sweeping 

prairie  flame; 
For  Bowie  of  the  broken  blade  is  there  to 

cheer  them  on, 
With  Evans  of  Concepcion,  who  conquered 

Castrillon, 
And  o'er  their  heads  the  Lone  Star  flag  defiant 

floats  on  high, 
And  no  man  thinks  of  yielding,  and  no  man 

fears  to  die. 


But  ere  the  siege  is  held  a  week  a  cry  is 

heard  without, 
A  clash  of  arms,  a  rifle  peal,  the  Ranger's 

ringing  shout, 
And    two-and-thirty    beardless    boys    have 

bravely  hewed  their  way 
To  die  with  Travis  if  they  must,  to  conquer  if 

they  may. 
Was  ever  valor  held  so  cheap  in  Glory's  mart 

before 
In  all  the  days  of  chivalry,  in  all  the  deeds  of 

war? 

But  once  again  the  foemen  gaze  in  wonder 
ment  and  fear 
To  see  a  stranger  break  their  lines  and  hear 

the  Texans  cheer. 
God!  how  they  cheered  to  welcome    him, 

those  spent  and  starving  men ! 
For  Davy  Crockett  by  their  side  was  worth  an 

army  then. 
The  wounded  ones  forgot  their  wounds;  the 

dying  drew  a  breath 
To  hail  the  king  of  border  men,  then  turned 

to  laugh  at  death. 

For  all  knew  Davy  Crockett,  blithe  and  gen 
erous  as  bold, 


And  strong  and  rugged  as  the  quartz  that  hides 

its  heart  of  gold. 
His  simple  creed  for  word  or  deed  true  as  the 

bullet  sped, 
And  rung  the  target  straight :  "  Be  sure  you  're 

right,  then  go  ahead ! " 


And  were  they  right  who  fought  the  fight  for 

Texas  by  his  side  ? 
They  questioned  not;  they  faltered  not;  they 

only  fought  and  died. 
Who  hath  an  enemy  like  these,  God's  mercy 

slay  him  straight !  — 
A  thousand  Mexicans  lay  dead  outside  the 

convent  gate, 
And  half  a  thousand  more  must  die  before  the 

fortress  falls, 
And  still  the  tide  of  war  beats  high  arcund  the 

leaguered  walls. 

At  last  the  bloody  breach  is  won ;   the  weak 
ened  lines  give  way; 
The  wolves  are  swarming  in  the  court;   the 

lions  stand  at  bay. 
The  leader  meets  them  at  the  breach,  and  wins 

the  soldier's  prize; 
A  foeman's  bosom  sheathes  his  sword  when 

gallant  Travis  dies. 
Now  let  the  victor  feast  at  will  until  his  crest 

be  red  — 

We  may  not  know  what  raptures  fill  the  vul 
ture  with  the  dead. 
Let  Santa  Anna's  valiant  sword  right  bravely 

hew  and  hack 
The  senseless  corse ;  its  hands  are  cold ;  they 

will  not  strike  him  back. 
Let  Bowie  die,  but  'ware  the  hand  that  wields 

his  deadly  knife; 
Four  went  to  slay,  and  one  comes  back,  so 

dear  he  sells  his  life. 
And  last  of  all  let  Crockett  fall,  too  proud  to 

sue  for  grace, 
So  grand  in  death  the  butcher  dared  not  look 

upon  his  face. 


But  far  on  San  Jacinto's  field  the  Texan  toils 

are  set, 
And  Alamo's  dread  memory  the  Texan  steel 

shall  whet. 
And  Fame  shall  tell  their  deeds  who  fell  till 

all  the  years  be  run. 
"Thermopylae   left  one  alive  —  the  Alamo 

left  none." 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


THE  FIGHT  AT   SAN  JACINTO 


357 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  THE  ALAMO 

[March  6,  1835] 

SANTA  ANA  came  storming,  as  a  storm  might 

come; 
There  was  rumble  of  cannon;  there  was 

rattle  of  blade; 

There  was  cavalry,  infantry,  bugle  and  drum  — 
Full  seven  thousand  in  pomp  and  parade. 
The  chivalry,  flower  of  Mexico ; 
And  a  gaunt  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo! 

And  thirty  lay  sick,  and  some  were  shot 

through ; 
For  the  siege  had  been  bitter,  and  bloody, 

and  long. 
"Surrender,  or  die!"  —  "Men,  what  will  you 

do?" 
And  Travis,  great  Travis,  drew  sword,  quick 

and  strong; 
Drew  a  line  at  his  feet.  ..."  Will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  go  ? 
/  die  with  my  wounded,  in  the  Alamo." 

The  Bowie  gasped,  "Lead  me  over  that  line !" 
Then  Crockett,  one  hand  to  the  sick,  one 

hand  to  his  gun, 
Crossed  with  him;  then  never  a  word  or  a 

sign 

Till  all,  sick  or  well,  all,  all  save  but  one, 
One  man.  Then  a  woman  stepped,  praying, 

and  slow 
Across ;  to  die  at  her  post  in  the  Alamo. 

Then  that  one  coward  fled,  in  the  night,  in 

that  night 

When  all  men  silently  prayed  and  thought 
Of  home;   of  to-morrow;  of  God  and  the 

right, 
Till  dawn ;  and  with  dawn  came  Tra vis's 

cannon-shot, 

In  answer  to  insolent  Mexico, 
From  the  old  bell-tower  of  the  Alamo. 

Then  came  Santa  Ana;  a  crescent  of  flame! 
Then  the  red  escalade ;  then  the  fight  hand 

to  hand; 

Such  an  unequal  fight  as  never  had  name 
Since  the  Persian  hordes  butchered  that 

doomed  Spartan  band. 
All  day  —  all  day  and   all  night;  and  the 

morning?  so  slow, 
Through    the  battle    smoke    mantling  the 

Alamo. 


Now  silence!    Such  silence!    Two  thousand 

lay  dead 
In  a  crescent  outside !  And  within  ?  Not  a 

breath 
Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman,  with  gory  gashed 

head, 

All  alone,  all  alone  there,  waiting  for  death ; 
And  she  but  a  nurse.  Yet  when  shall  we  know 
Another  like  this  of  the  Alamo? 

Shout  "Victory,  victory,  victory  ho!" 

I  say  't  is  not  always  to  the  hosts  that  win ! 

I  say  that  the  victory,  high  or  low, 
Is  given  the  hero  who  grapples  with  sin, 

Or  legion  or  single;  just  asking  to  know 

When  duty  fronts  death  in  his  Alamo. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


A  few  days  later,  at  Goliad,  Colonel  Fannin  and 
four  hundred  soldiers  surrendered  to  the  Mexi 
cans  under  solemn  assurances  that  their  lives 
would  be  spared .  On  March  27  the  prisoners  were 
marched  out  under  guard  and  shot  down  like 
cattle  in  the  shambles.  This  massacre  aroused 
the  wildest  indignation,  and  recruits  flocked  to 
the  army  under  Houston,  and  on  April  21  sur 
prised  Santa  Anna  at  San  Jacinto,  routed  the 
Mexicans,  and  inflicted  a  terrible  vengeance. 


THE  FIGHT  AT  SAN  JACINTO 

[April  21 ,  1836) 

"Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful  fight!" 

Said  Harman,  big  and  droll, 
As  he  coaxed  his  flint  and  steel  for  a  light, 

And  puffed  at  his  cold  clay  bowl; 
"For  we  are  a  skulking  lot,"  says  he, 

"Of  land -thieves  hereabout, 
And  the  bold  senores,  two  to  one, 
Have  come  to  smoke  us  out." 

Santa  Anna  and  Castrillon, 

Almonte  brave  and  gay, 
Portilla  red  from  Goliad, 

And  Cos  with  his  smart  array. 
Dulces  and  cigaritos, 

And  the  light  guitar,  ting-turn! 
Sant'  Anna  courts  siesta  — 

And  Sam  Houston  taps  his  drum. 

The  buck  stands  still  in  the  timber  — 
"Is  't  the  patter  of  nuts  that  fall?" 

The  foal  of  the  wild  mare  whinnies  — 
"Did  he  hear  the  Comanche  call?" 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


In  the  brake  by  the  crawling  bayou 
The  slinking  she-wolves  howl, 

And  the  mustang's  snort  in  the  river  sedge 
Has  startled  the  paddling  fowl. 

A  soft  low  tap,  and  a  muffled  tap, 

And  a  roll  not  loud  nor  long  — 
We  would  not  break  Sant'  Anna's  nap, 

Nor  spoil  Almonte's  song. 
Saddles  and  knives  and  rifles! 

Lord !  but  the  men  were  glad 
When  Deaf  Smith  muttered  "Alamo!" 

And  Karnes  hissed  "Goliad!" 

The  drummer  tucked  his  sticks  in  his  belt, 

And  the  fifer  gripped  his  gun. 
Oh,  for  one  free,  wild  Texan  yell, 

And  we  took  the  slope  in  a  run! 
But  never  a  shout  nor  a  shot  we  spent, 

Nor  an  oath  nor  a  prayer  that  day, 
Till  we  faced  the  bravos,  eye  to  eye, 

And  then  we  blazed  away. 

Then  we  knew  the  rapture  of  Ben  Milam, 

And  the  glory  that  Travis  made, 
With  Bowie's  lunge  and  Crockett's  shot, 

And  Fannin's  dancing  blade; 
And  the  heart  of  the  fighter,  bounding  free 

In  his  joy  so  hot  and  mad  — 
When  Millard  charged  for  Alamo, 

Lamar  for  Goliad. 

Deaf  Smith  rode  straight,  with  reeking  spur, 

Into  the  shock  and  rout: 
"I  've  hacked  and  burned  the  bayou  bridge, 

There 's  no  sneak's  back-way  out ! " 
Muzzle  or  butt  for  Goliad, 

Pistol  and  blade  and  fist! 
Oh,  for  the  knife  that  never  glanced, 

And  the  gun  that  never  missed ! 

Dulces  and  cigaritos. 

Song  and  the  mandolin ! 
That  gory  swamp  was  a  gruesome  grove 

To  dance  fandangos  in. 
We  bridged  the  bog  with  the  sprawling  herd 

That  fell  in  that  frantic  rout; 
We  slew  and  slew  till  the  sun  set  red, 

And  the  Texan  star  flashed  out. 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 

The  victory  at  San  Jacinto  ended  the  war. 
Santa  Anna  at  once  signed  a  treaty  recognizing 
the  independence  of  Texas,  and  it  was  formally 
ratified  May  14, 1836.  The  Republic  of  Texas  was 


established,  and  commissioners  were  dispatched 
to  Washington  to  secure  recognition  and  proffer 
annexation. 

SONG  OF  TEXAS 

MAKE  room  on  our  banner  bright 

That  flaps  in  the  lifting  gale, 
For  the  orb  that  lit  the  fight 

In  Jacinto's  storied  vale. 
Through  clouds,  all  dark  of  hue, 

It  arose  with  radiant  face; 
Oh,  grant  to  a  sister  true, 

Ye  stars,  in  your  train  a  place ! 

The  blood  of  the  Saxon  flows 

In  the  veins  of  the  men  who  cry,  — 
"Give  ear,  give  ear  unto  those 

Who  pine  for  their  native  sky! 
We  call  on  our  Motherland 

For  a  home  in  Freedom's  hall,  — 
While  stretching  forth  the  hand, 

Oh,  build  no  dividing  wall! 

"The  Mexican  vaunteth  no  more; 

In  strife  we  have  tamed  his  pride; 
The  coward  raps  not  at  your  door, 

Speak  out !   shall  it  open  wide  ? 
Oh,  the  wish  of  our  hearts  is  strong, 

That  the  star  of  Jacinto's  fight 
Have  place  in  the  flashing  throng 

That  spangle  your  banner  bright." 

WILLIAM  HENRY  CUTLER  HOSMER. 


The  question  of  the  admission  of  Texas  was 
destined  to  occasion  the  bitterest  controversy  that 
ever  shook  the  Union.  The  struggle  between  the 
advocates  of  freedom  and  of  slavery  was  at  its 
height ;  the  former  feared  that  to  annex  Texas,  with 
its  two  hundred  thousand  square  miles,  would  be 
to  seat  the  slave  interests  more  firmly  than  ever 
in  power.  It  would  also  involve  war  with  Mexico. 
The  controversy  raged  with  unexampled  venom, 
but  on  December  29,  1845,  Texas  was  admitted 
to  the  Union. 

TEXAS 

VOICE  OF  NEW   ENGLAND 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low. 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe; 


TEXAS 


359 


It  is  coming,  it  is  nigh! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak. 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

Oh,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race. 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  perish  clan; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can. 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time; 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both : 

"What  though  Issachar  be  strong! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long: 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain. 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up. 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope! 

"Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 


"Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom; 
Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 
For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom; 

"Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart; 

"Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare ! 

"Onward  with  your  fell  design; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line: 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine: 

"Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread. 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow. 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow ;  — 

"And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies* 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band. 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand; 

"Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God!" 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  Mexican  minister  had    already  demanded 
his  passports,  and  the  annexation  of  Texas  to  the 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Union  was  regarded  by  Mexico  as  an  act  of  war. 
A  Mexican  army  was  collected  on  the  Rio  Grande, 
while  an  American  army  of  occupation  under 
General  Zachary  Taylor  was  thrown  into  Texas. 
The  war  awakened  the  most  violent  hostility  in 
the  North,  and  especially  in  New  England,  where 
it  was  held  to  be  merely  a  pretext  for  extending 
slave  territory. 

MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  SPEAKS 

THRASH  away,  you'll  hev  to  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn,  — 
'Taint  a  knowin'  kind  o*  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn; 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be,  — 
Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me ! 

Thet  air  flag's  a  leetle  rotten, 

Hope  it  aint  your  Sunday's  best;  — 
Fact!  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest: 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these, 
S'posin'  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't, 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

*T  would  n't  suit  them  Southun  fellers, 

They're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het; 
May  be  it's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates, 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

O'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Haint  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders), 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North! 
We  begin  to  think  it's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled ;  — 
Who'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled  ? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder,  — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It  's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God. 


'Taint  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 
'Taint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  aint  to  answer  for  it, 

God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry, 
Ef  it's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye? 
I  dunno  but  what  it's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats,  — 
But  it's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 

Tell  they're  pupple  in  the  face,  — 
It's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race; 
They  jest  want  this  Californy 

So's  to  lug  new  slave-states  in 
To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 

Aint  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin*  pains, 
All  to  get  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains? 
Wy,  it's  jest  ez  clear  es  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two, 
Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I  've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu, 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman, 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame, 
Ev'y  thin'  thet's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same. 

'Taint  by  turnin*  out  to  hack  folks 

You're  agoin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you're  put  upon  by  wite; 
Slavery  aint  o'  nary  color, 

"Taint  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

*S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 


THE   GUNS  IN  THE  GRASS 


361 


Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye? 

I  expect  you'll  hev  to  wait; 
Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You'll  begin  to  kal'late; 
S'pose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones, 
Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin* 

To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones? 

Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I'd  be  such  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye,  —  guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  eternal  bung  wuz  loose ! 
She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay 's  to  mow,  — 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet's  crowin* 

Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old,  — • 
Don't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin'. 

Though  they  be  so  blasted  bold; 
Aint  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers  ? 

Tore  they  think  on  't  guess  they'll  sprout 
(Like  a  peach  thet's  got  the  yellers), 

With  the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wai,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 

Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves, 
Help  the  men  thet's  oilers  dealin' 

Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves; 
Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddlin'  crew! 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She's  akneelin'  with  the  rest, 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world! 

Ha'n't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen  ? 

Ha'n't  they  made  your  env'ys  w'iz  ? 
Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ? 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I  tell  you  wut  I  'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin' 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 


Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own; 
Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South :  — 

"I'll  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traitor, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees,  — 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace!" 

Ef  I'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 
We  should  go  to  work  an'  part, 

They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'other, 
Guess  it  would  n't  break  my  heart; 

Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 
Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 

An'  I  should  n't  gretly  wonder 

Ef  there's  thousands  o'  my  mind. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


General  Taylor  took  up  his  station  opposite 
Matamoras,  where  the  Mexican  army  was,  and 
the  Mexicans  finally  attacked  Fort  Brown,  which 
Taylor  had  erected  opposite  one  of  their  batteries. 
On  May  7  Taylor  started  to  relieve  the  fort,  with 
a  force  of  twenty-one  hundred  men,  and  at  noon 
next  day  found  the  Mexican  army,  six  thousand 
strong,  drawn  up  before  him  at  Palo  Alto.  Taylor 
ordered  Lieutenant  Blake  to  reconnoitre  the  ene 
my's  position. 


THE  GUNS  IN  THE  GRASS 

[May  8.  1846] 

As  hang  two  mighty  thunderclouds 
Ere  lightnings  link  the  twain, 

So  lie  we  and  the  Mexican 
On  Palo  Alto  plain; 

And  silence,  solemn,  dread,  profound, 

Broods  o'er  the  waiting  battle-ground. 

We  see  the  foeman's  musketeers 

Deployed  upon  his  right, 
And  on  his  left  the  cavalry 

Stand,  hungry  for  the  fight; 
But  that  blank  centre  —  what  ?  Alas, 
'T  is  hidden  by  the  prairie  grass ! 


362 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Old  Rough  and  Ready  scans  the  foe; 

"I  would  I  knew,"  says  he, 
"Whether  or  no  that  lofty  grass 

Conceals  artillery. 
Could  I  but  bring  that  spot  in  ken, 
'T  were  worth  to  me  five  thousand  men ! " 

Then  forward  steps  Lieutenant  Blake, 

Touches  his  hat,  and  says, 
"I  wait  command  to  ride  and  see 

What  'neath  that  prairie  lays." 
We  stand  amazed:   no  cowards,  we: 
But  this  is  more  than  bravery! 

" '  Command ' ! "  cries  Taylor ;   "  nay,  I  ne'er 

To  such  a  deed  'command!'" 
Then  bends  he  o'er  his  horse's  neck 

And  takes  as  brave  a  hand 
As  e'er  a  loyal  sabre  bore: 
"God  bless  you,  Blake,"  he  says  —  no  more. 

The  soldier  to  his  saddle  springs 

And  gayly  waves  good-by, 
Determination  on  his  lips, 

A  proud  light  in  his  eye: 
And  then,  as  pity  holds  our  breath, 
We  see  him  dare  that  road  of  death. 

To  utmost  pace  his  steed  he  spurs. 

Save  that  his  sword  hangs  free, 
It  were  as  though  a  madman  charged 

A  nation's  chivalry! 
On,  on,  he  flies,  his  steed  unreined 
Till  yonder  hillock's  crest  is  gained. 

And  now  he  checks  his  horse,  dismounts, 

And  coolly  through  his  glass 
Surveys  the  phalanx  of  the  foe 

That  lies  beyond  the  grass. 
A  musket-flash !   They  move !   Advance ! 
Halt !  —  't  was  the  sunlight  on  a  lance ! 

He  turns,  remounts,  and  speeds  him  back. 

Hark!  what  is  that  we  hear? 
Across  the  rolling  prairie  rings  — 

A  gun  ?   ah,  no  —  a  cheer ! 
A  noble  tribute  sweeps  the  plain: 
A  thousand  throats  take  up  the  strain. 

Safe!  But  the  secret  to  unveil 

Taylor  no  longer  seeks; 
For  with  a  roar  that  shakes  the  earth 

That  unmasked  centre  speaks! 
'Gainst  fearful  odds,  till  set  of  sun, 
We  battle  —  and  the  field  is  won! 

THOMAS  FBOST.    i 


Blake  brought  back  with  him  an  accurate 
description  of  the  disposition  of  the  Mexican 
forces,  and  Taylor  resolved  to  attack,  despite  the 
odds  against  him.  His  artillery  did  great  execu 
tion,  and  gradually  advanced,  as  the  Mexicans 
were  forced  back.  Charge  after  charge  was  re 
pulsed,  and  the  Mexicans  finally  withdrew  to 
Resaca  de  la  Palma.  There  Taylor  attacked  them 
next  day,  routed  them,  and  marched  on  to  relieve 
Fort  Brown. 

RIO  BRAVO  — A  MEXICAN  LAMENT 

[May  8,  1846] 

Rio  BRAVO!  Rio  Bravo! 

Saw  men  ever  such  a  sight? 
Since  the  field  of  Roncesvalles 

Sealed  the  fate  of  many  a  knight. 

Dark  is  Palo  Alto's  story, 

Sad  Reseca  Palma's  rout, 
On  those  fatal  fields  so  gory, 

Many  a  gallant  life  went  out. 

There  our  best  and  bravest  lances 
Shivered  'gainst  the  Northern  steel, 

Left  the  valiant  hearts  that  couched  them 
'Neath  the  Northern  charger's  heeL 

Rio  Bravo!   Rio  Bravo! 

Minstrel  ne'er  knew  such  a  fight 
Since  the  field  of  Roncesvalles 
Sealed  the  fate  of  many  a  knight. 

Rio  Bravo,  fatal  river, 

Saw  ye  not  while  red  with  gore, 
Torrejon  all  headless  quiver, 

A  ghastly  trunk  upon  thy  shore! 

Heard  you  not  the  wounded  coursers 
Shrieking  on  your  trampled  banks, 

As  the  Northern  winged  artillery 
Thundered  on  our  shattered  ranks! 

There  Arista,  best  and  bravest. 
There  Raguena,  tried  and  true, 

On  the  fatal  field  thou  lavest, 
Nobly  did  all  men  could  do. 

Vainly  there  those  heroes  rally, 

Castile  on  Montezuma's  shore, 
"Rio  Bravo"  —  " Roncesvalles," 
Ye  are  names  blent  evermore. 

Weepest  thou,  lorn  lady  Inez, 
For  thy  lover  'mid  the  slaiu, 


MONTEREY 


363 


Brave  La  Vega's  trenchant  falchion 
Cleft  his  slayer  to  the  brain. 

Brave  I  A  Vega  who  all  lonely, 

By  a  host  of  foes  beset, 
Yielded  up  his  sabre  only 

When  his  equal  there  he  met. 

Other  champions  not  less  noted 
Sleep  beneath  that  sullen  wave; 

Rio  Bravo,  thou  hast  floated 
An  army  to  an  ocean  grave. 

On  they  came,  those  Northern  horsemen, 
On  like  eagles  toward  the  sun, 

Followed  then  the  Northern  bayonet, 
And  the  field  was  lost  and  won. 

Oh !   for  Orlando's  horn  to  rally 

His  Paladins  on  that  sad  shore, 
"Rio  Bravo"  —  " Roncesvalles," 
Ye  are  names  blent  evermore. 
Translated  by  CHABLES  FENNO  HOFF 
MAN  from  the  Spanish  of  DON  JOSE 
DE  SALTILLO. 


These  brilliant  victories  served  to  kindle  enthu 
siasm  for  the  war  throughout  the  whole  country. 
Congress  authorized  the  enlistment  of  fifty  thou 
sand  volunteers,  and  reinforcements  were  promptly 
started  to  General  Taylor  at  Matamoras. 


TO  ARMS 

[1846] 

AWAKE!  arise,  ye  men  of  might! 

The  glorious  hour  is  nigh,  — 
Your  eagle  pauses  in  his  flight, 

And  screams  his  battle-cry. 

From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West: 
Send  back  an  answering  cheer, 

And  say  farewell  to  peace  and  rest, 
And  banish  doubt  and  fear. 

Arm !  arm !  your  country  bids  you  arm ! 

Fling  out  your  banners  free  — 
Let  drum  and  trumpet  sound  alarm, 

O'er  mountains,  plain,  and  sea. 

March  onward  from  th'  Atlantic  shore, 

To  Rio  Grande's  tide  — 
Fight  as  your  fathers  fought  of  yore ! 

Die  as  your  fathers  died ! 


Go!   vindicate  your  country's  fame. 
Avenge  your  country's  wrong! 

The  sons  should  own  a  deathless  name, 
To  whom  such  sires  belong. 

The  kindred  of  the  noble  dead 
As  noble  deeds  should  dare: 

The  fields  whereon  their  blood  was  shed 
A  deeper  stain  must  bear. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  men  of  might; 

Away  from  home,  away! 
The  first  and  foremost  in  the  fight 

Are  sure  to  win  the  day! 

PARK  BENJAMIN. 


By  the  last  of  August,  Taylor  had  whipped  his 
army  into  shape,  and  began  to  advance  on  Mon 
terey,  a  town  believed  to  be  impregnable,  and 
where  General  Arista  had  collected  an  army  of 
ten  thousand  men.  The  American  army  reached 
the  town  September  19;  and  after  two  days'  des 
perate  fighting  the  town  surrendered. 


MONTEREY 

[September  23,  1846J 

WE  were  not  many,  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day: 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  is  hail'd 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quail'd 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wail'd 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept 

Through    walls    of    flame    its  -withering 

way; 

Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept. 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoil'd  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swoop'd  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Storm'd  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 
And  there  our  evening  bugles  play: 


364 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Where  orange-boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many  —  we  who  press'd 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day  — 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confess'd 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

The  city  had  cost  the  Americans  five  hundred 
in  killed  and  wounded;  but  the  Mexican  loss  was 
nearly  twice  as  great.  Among  the  American  dead 
was  Victor  Galbraith,  a  bugler  in  a  company  of 
volunteer  cavalry,  who  was  shot  for  disobeying 
orders. 

VICTOR  GALBRAITH 

[September  23,  1846] 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say: 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith!" 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said: 

"Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith!" 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the 

sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith! 

And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"Take  good  aim;  I  am  ready  to  die!" 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed   straight  and 

red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped ; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead : 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of 
lead. 

And  they  only  scath 
Victor  Galbraith. 


Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain; 
"Oh,  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain!" 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"Victor  Galbraith!" 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith!" 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Further  reinforcements  were  hurried  forward 
to  General  Taylor.  Santa  Anna  had  collected  a 
great  army,  and  Taylor  fell  back  to  Angostura, 
near  the  village  of  Buena  Vista.  There,  on  Febru 
ary  22,  Santa  Anna  summoned  him  to  surrender, 
stating  that  he  was  surrounded  by  twenty  thou 
sand  men  and  could  not  avoid  defeat.  Taylor  tartly 
refused,  and  Santa  Anna  advanced  to  the  attack, 
only  to  be  routed  after  a  desperate  two  days' 
struggle. 

BUENA  VISTA 

[February  22-23,  1847] 

FROM  the  Rio  Grande's  waters  to  the  icy  lakes 
of  Maine, 

Let  all  exult!  for  we  have  met  the  enemy 
again ; 

Beneath  their  stern  old  mountains  we  have 
met  them  in  their  pride. 

And  rolled  from  BUENA  VISTA  back  the  bat 
tle's  bloody  tide; 

Where  the  enemy  came  surging  swift,  like  the 
Mississippi's  flood, 

And  the  reaper,  Death,  with  strong  arms 
swung  his  sickle  red  with  blood. 

SANTANA   boasted   loudly  that,   before  two 

hours  were  past. 
His  Lancers  through  Saltillo  should  pursue  us 

fierce  and  fast:  — 


BUENA  VISTA 


365 


On  comes  his  solid   infantry,  line  marching 

after  line; 
Lo!  their  great  standards  in   the   sun   like 

sheets  of  silver  shine: 
With  thousands  upon  thousands,  —  yea,  with 

more  than  three  to  one,  — 
Their  forests  of  bright  bayonets  fierce-flashing 

in  the  sun. 

Lo !  Guanajuato's  regiment ;  Morelos'  boasted 
corps, 

And  Guadalajara's  chosen  troops !  —  all 
veterans  tried  before. 

Lo!  galloping  upon  the  right  four  thousand 
lances  gleam, 

Where,  floating  in  the  morning  wind,  their 
blood-red  pennons  stream; 

And  here  his  stern  artillery  climbs  up  the 
broad  plateau: 

To-day  he  means  to  strike  at  us  an  overwhelm 
ing  blow. 

Now,  WOOL,  hold  strongly  to  the  heights !  for, 
lo!  the  mighty  tide 

Comes,  thundering  like  an  avalanche,  deep, 
terrible,  and  wide. 

Now,  ILLINOIS,  stand  steady!  Now,  KEN 
TUCKY,  to  their  aid ! 

For  a  portion  of  our  line,  alas !  is  broken  and 
dismayed : 

Great  bands  of  shameless  fugitives  are  fleeing 
from  the  field. 

And  the  day  is  lost,  if  Illinois  and  brave  Ken 
tucky  yield. 

One  of  O'Brien's  guns  is  gone!  —  On,  on 
their  masses  drift, 

Till  their  cavalry  and  infantry  outflank  us  on 
the  left; 

Our  light  troops,  driven  from  the  hills,  retreat 
in  wild  dismay, 

And  round  us  gather,  thick  and  dark,  the 
Mexican  array. 

SANTANA  thinks  the  day  is  gained ;  for,  now 
approaching  near, 

MINON'S  dark  cloud  of  Lancers  sternly  men 
aces  our  rear. 

Now,  LINCOLN,  gallant  gentleman,  lies  dead 

upon  the  field. 
Who  strove  to  stay  those  cravens,  when  before 

the  storm  they  reeled. 
Fire,  WASHINGTON,  fire  fast  and  true!   Fire, 

SHERMAN,  fast  and  far! 
Lo !  BRAGG  comes  thundering  to  the  front,  to 

breast  the  adverse  war! 


SANTANA  thinks  the  day  is  gained !  On,  on  his 
masses  crowd. 

And  the  roar  of  battle  swells  again  more  ter 
rible  and  loud. 

NOT  YET!   Our  brave  old  General  comes  to 

regain  the  day; 
KENTUCKY,  to  the  rescue!    MISSISSIPPI,  to 

the  fray! 
Again   our  line  advances!    Gallant   DAVIS 

fronts  the  foe, 
And  back  before  his  rifles,  in  red  waves  the 

Lancers  flow. 
Upon  them  yet  once  more,  ye  brave!    The 

avalanche  is  stayed ! 
Back  roll  the  Aztec  multitudes,  all  broken  and 

dismayed. 

Ride!    MAY!  — To  Buena  Vista!    for  the 

Lancers  gain  our  rear, 
And  we  have  few  troops  there  to  check  their 

vehement  career. 
Charge,    ARKANSAS!     KENTUCKY,    charge! 

YELL,  PORTER,  VAUGHAN,  are  slain. 
But  the  shattered  troops  cling  desperately 

unto  that  crimsoned  plain; 
Till,  with  the  Lancers  intermixed,  pursuing 

and  pursued. 
Westward,  in  combat  hot  and  close,  drifts  off 

the  multitude. 

And  MAY  comes  charging  from  the  hills  with 

his  ranks  of  flaming  steel, 
While,  shattered  with  a  sudden  fire,  the  foe 

already  reel: 
They  flee  amain !  —  Now  to  the  left,  to  stay 

the  torrent  there, 
Or  else  the  day  is  surely  lost,  in  horror  and 


For  their  hosts  pour  swiftly  onward,  like  a 

river  in  the  spring, 
Our  flank  is  turned,  and  on  our  left  their 

cannon  thundering. 

Now,  good  Artillery !  bold  Dragoons !  Steady, 
brave  hearts,  be  calm! 

Through  rain,  cold  hail,  and  thunder,  now 
nerve  each  gallant  arm! 

What  though  their  shot  fall  round  us  here,  yet 
thicker  than  the  hail? 

We'll  stand  against  them,  as  the  rock  stands 
firm  against  the  gale. 

Lo !  their  battery  is  silenced !  but  our  iron 
sleet  still  showers: 

They  falter,  halt,  retreat,  —  Hurrah!  the  glo 
rious  day  is  ours! 


366 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


In  front,  too,  has  the  fight  gone  well,  where 

upon  gallant  LANE, 
And  on  stout  Mississippi,  the  thick  Lancers 

charged  in  vain: 
Ah!    brave  Third  Indiana!   you  have  nobly 

wiped  away 
The   reproach   that   through   another   corps 

befell  your  State  to-day; 
For  back,  all  broken  and  dismayed,  before 

your  storm  of  fire, 
SANTANA'S    boasted    chivalry,    a    shattered 

wreck,  retire. 

Now  charge  again,  SANTANA!  or  the  day  is 

surely  lost  — 
For  back,  like  broken  waves,  along  our  left 

your  hordes  are  tossed. 
Still   faster  roar  his   batteries,  —  his  whole 

reserve  moves  on; 
More  work  remains  for  us  to  do,  ere  the  good 

fight  is  won. 
Now  for  your  wives  and  children,  men !  Stand 

steady  yet  once  more ! 
Fight  for  your  lives  and  honors !  Fight  as  you 

never  fought  before! 

Ho!  HARDIN  breasts  it  bravely!  and  heroic 

BISSELL  there 
Stands  firm  before  the  storm  of  balls  that  fill 

the  astonished  air: 
The  Lancers  dash  upon  them  too!   The  foe 

swarm  ten  to  one: 
HARDIN  is  slain;  McKEE  and  CLAY  the  last 

time  see  the  sun: 
And  many  another  gallant  heart,  in  that  last 

desperate  fray, 
Grew  cold,  its  last  thought  turning  to  its  loved 

ones  far  away. 

Speed,  speed,  Artillery!    to  the  front!  —  for 

the  hurricane  of  fire 
Crushes  those  noble  regiments,  reluctant  to 

retire ! 
Speed   swiftly!    Gallop!    Ah!    they   come! 

Again  BRAGG  climbs  the  ridge, 
And  his  grape  sweeps  down  the  swarming  foe, 

as  a  strong  man  moweth  sedge: 
Thus  baffled  in  their  last  attack,  compelled 

perforce  to  yield, 
Still  menacing  in  firm  array,  their  columns 

leave  tne  field. 

The  guns  still  roared  at  intervals;  but  silence 

fell  at  last, 
And  on  the  dead  and  dying  came  the  evening 

shadows  fast. 


And  then  above  the  mountains  rose  the  cold 

moon's  silver  shield, 
And  patiently  and  pitying  she  looked  upon  the 

field. 
While  careless  of  his  wounded,  and  neglectful 

of  his  dead, 
Despairingly  and  sullenly  by  night  SANTANA 

fled. 

And  thus  on  BUENA  VISTA'S  heights  a  long 

day's  work  was  done, 
And  thus  our  brave  old  General  another  battle 

won. 
Still,  still  our  glorious  banner  waves,  unstained 

by  flight  or  shame, 
And   the   Mexicans   among   their   hills   still 

tremble  at  our  name. 
So,  HONOR  UNTO  THOSE  THAT  STOOD!    DlS- 

GRACE  TO  THOSE  THAT  FLED! 
AND    EVERLASTING    GLORY    UNTO    BUENA 

VISTA'S  DEAD! 

ALBERT  PIKE. 
February  28,  1847. 


THE  ANGELS  OF   BUENA  VISTA 

[February  22-23,  1847] 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north 
ward  far  away, 

O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexi 
can  array, 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far 
or  come  they  near  ? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls 
the  storm  we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm 

of  battle  rolls; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;    God  have 

mercy  on  their  souls!" 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?   "Over  hill 

and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through 

the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother!    keep  our  brothers!    Look, 

Ximena,  look  once  more. 
"Still   I   see   the   fearful   whirlwind   rolling 

darkly  as  before, 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and 

foeman,  foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweep1 

ing  down  its  mountain  course.' ' 


THE  ANGELS   OF   BUENA  VISTA 


367 


Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!    "Ah!   the 

smoke  has  rolled  away; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down 

the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles !  there  the 

troop  of  Minon  wheels; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the 

cannon  at  their  heels. 

"Jesu,  pity!    how  it  thickens!    now  retreat 

and  now  advance! 
Right   against   the    blazing   cannon   shivers 

Puebla's  charging  lance! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse 

and  foot  together  fall; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through 

them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling 
fast  and  frightful  on ! 

Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has 
lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 

"Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  to 
gether  fall, 

O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:  pray,  my 
sisters,  for  them  all! 

"Lo!   the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting.   Blessed 

Mother,  save  my  brain! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out 

from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding;   now 

they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they 

die  before  our  eyes! 

"  O  my  heart's  love !  O  my  dear  one !  lay  thy 

poor  head  on  my  knee; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?   Canst 

thou  hear  me  ?  canst  thou  see  ? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!    O  my 

Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!    Mercy! 

mercy !  all  is  o'er ! " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear 

one  down  to  rest; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross 

upon  his  breast; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral 

masses  said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living 

ask  thy  aid. 


Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and 
young,  a  soldier  lay. 

Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleed 
ing  slow  his  life  away; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena 
knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his 
pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned 
away  her  head; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back 
upon  her  dead ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and 
his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parch 
ing  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her 

hand  and  faintly  smiled; 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she 

watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All   his   stranger   words   with   meaning   her 

woman's  heart  supplied; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "Mother!  " 

murmured  he,  and  died! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led 

thee  forth. 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping, 

lonely,  in  the  North!" 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid 

him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the 

wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!    "Like  a 

cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving 

blood  and  death  behind; 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the  dust 

the  wounded  strive; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels!  O  thou  Christ 

of  God,  forgive!" 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!  let  the 

cool,  gray  shadows  fall; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy 

curtain  over  all! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide 

apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's 

lips  grew  cold. 


368 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy 
task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow, 
worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food. 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  ten 
der  care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a 
strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father !  is  this  evil  world 

of  ours; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring 

afresh  the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and 

Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly 

in  our  air! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  American  forces  in  this  memorable  battle 
totalled  4691,  while  the  Mexicans  mustered  over 
23,000  men.  The  Mexican  losses  exceeded  2500. 
The  Americans  lost  264  killed  and  450  wounded. 
Theodore  O'Hara's  famous  poem  was  written  to 
commemorate  them. 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust; 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 
The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 


The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  Death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept, 

O'er  Angostura's  plain  — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream  or  eagle's  flight 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 
Far  from  the  gory  field 


WHAT   MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS 


369 


Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here. 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 
Nor  shall  your  story  be  forgot, 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 

THEODORE  O'HARA. 


Despite  the  victories,  the  war  continued  unpop 
ular  in  New  England,  and  particularly  in  Massa 
chusetts.  In  the  campaign  of  1847,  Caleb  Gushing, 
who  had  raised  a  regiment  at  his  own  expense  and 
taken  it  to  Mexico,  was  nominated  by  the  Demo 
crats  for  governor,  but  was  defeated  by  George 
Nixon  Briggs,  his  Whig  opponent,  by  a  majority 
of  fourteen  thousand. 

WHAT  MR.   ROBINSON   THINKS 

[1847] 

GUVENER  B.  is  a  sensible  man; 
He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his 

folks; 

He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An*  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My !  aint  it  terrible  ?  Wut  shall  we  du  ? 
We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course,  — 

thet's  flat; 

Guess  we  shell  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you  ?) 
An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that; 
Per  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 


Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man : 
He's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or 

pelf; 

But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan,  — 
He 's  ben  true  to  one  party,  —  an'  thet  is 
himself;  — 

So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war; 

He  don't  vally  princerple  more  'n  an  old  cud ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 
But   glory   an'   gunpowder,    plunder   an' 
blood? 

So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  vil 
lage. 
With  good  old  idees  o'  wut's  right  an'  wut 

aint, 
We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an' 

pillage, 

An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of 
a  saint; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing's  an  exploded  idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 
An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our 

country. 

An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per 
contry ; 

An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argiments 

lies; 
Sez  they're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest  fee, 

faw,  fum  ; 

An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'other  half  rum ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing;  an',  of  course, 
so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his  life 
Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  swaller- 
tail  coats, 


370 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


An'  marched  round  in  front  ef  a  drum  an'  a 

fife, 

To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em 
votes ; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in 
Judee. 

Wai,  it's  a  marcy  we've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters, 

I  vow,  — 
God  sends   country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise 

fellers, 

To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a 
slough ; 

Per  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out 
Gee! 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

On  March  9, 1847,  General  Winfield  Scott  arrived 
off  Vera  Cruz  with  twelve  thousand  men  to  march 
against  the  City  of  Mexico.  On  April  18  he  met 
and  defeated  Santa  Anna's  army  at  Cerro  Gordo. 
On  August  20  he  arrived  before  the  City  of  Mexico, 
and,  after  an  ill-advised  armistice,  advanced  to 
storm  the  city  on  September  8.  He  chose  the  ap 
proach  guarded  by  the  formidable  works  of  Malino 
del  Rey  and  Chapultepec.  The  former  was  carried 
by  assault,  after  a  fierce  hand-to-hand  battle. 

BATTLE   OF   THE   KING'S   MILL 

[September  8,  1847) 

SAID  my  landlord,  white-headed  Gil  Gomez, 

With  newspaper  held  in  his  hand  — 
"  So  they  've  built  from  El  Paso  a  railway 

That  Yankees  may  visit  our  land. 
As  guests  let  them  come  and  be  welcome, 

But  not  as  they  came  here  before; 
They  are  rather  rough  fellows  to  handle 

In  the  rush  of  the  battle  and  roar. 

"They  took  Vera  Cruz  and  its  castle; 

In  triumph  they  marched  through  the  land ; 
We  fought  them  with  desperate  daring, 

But  lacked  the  right  man  to  command. 
They  stormed,  at  a  loss,  Cerro  Gordo  — 

Every  mile  in  their  movement  it  cost; 
And  when  they  arrived  at  Puebla, 

Some  thousands  of  men  they  had  lost. 

"Ere  our  capital  fell,  and  the  city 
By  foreign  invaders  was  won, 


We  called  out  among  its  defenders 
Each  man  who  could  handle  a  gun. 

Chapultepec  stood  in  their  pathway; 
Churubusco  they  had  to  attack; 

The  mill  of  the  King  —  well,  I  fought  there. 
And  they  were  a  hard  nut  to  crack. 

"While  their  right  was  assailing  the  ramparts, 

Our  force  struck  their  left  on  the  field, 
Where  our  colonel,  in  language  that  stirred  us, 

To  love  of  our  country  appealed. 
And  we  swore  that  we  never  would  falter 

Before  either  sabre  or  ball; 
We  would  beat  back  the  foeman  before  us, 

Or  dead  on  the  battle-field  fall. 

"Fine  words,  you  may  say,  but  we  meant 
them ; 

And  so  when  they  came  up  the  hill, 
We  poured  on  them  volley  on  volley, 

And  riddled  their  ranks  with  a  will. 
Their  line  in  a  moment  was  broken; 

They  closed  it,  and  came  with  a  cheer; 
But  still  we  fired  quickly  and  deadly, 

And  felt  neither  pity  nor  fear. 

"We  smote  the  blue  column  with  grape-shot, 

But  it  rushed  as  the  wild  torrent  runs; 
At  the  pieces  they  slew  our  best  gunners, 

And  took  in  the  struggle  our  guns. 
We  sprang  in  a  rage  to  retake  them, 

And  lost  nearly  half  of  our  men; 
Then,  baffled  and  beaten,  retreated, 

And  gained  our  position  again. 

"Ceased  their  yell,  and  in  spite  of  our  firing 

They  dressed  like  an  arrow  in  line, 
Then,  standing  there  moveless  a  moment, 

Their  eyes  flashed  with  purpose  malign, 
All  still  as  the  twilight  in  summer, 

No  cloud  on  the  sky  to  deform, 
Like  the  lull  in  the  voices  of  nature 

Ere  wakens  the  whirlwind  and  storm. 

"  We  had  fought  them  with  death-daring  spirits 

And  courage  unyielding  till  then; 
No  man  could  have  forced  us  to  falter, 

But  these  were  more  demons  than  men. 
Our  ranks  had  been  torn  by  their  bullets, 

We  filled  all  the  gaps  they  had  made; 
But  the  pall  of  that  terrible  silence 

The  hearts  of  our  boldest  dismayed. 

"Before  us  no  roaring  of  cannon, 
Rifle-rattle,  or  musketry  peal; 


ILLUMINATION   FOR  VICTORIES  IN  MEXICO 


But  there  on  the  ocean  of  battle 
Surged  steady  the  billow  of  steel. 

Fierce  we  opened  our  fire  on  the  column, 
We  pierced  it  with  ball  here  and  there; 

But  it  swept  on  in  pitiless  sternness 
Till  we  faltered  and  fled  in  despair. 

"After  that  all  their  movements  were  easy; 

At  their  storming  Chapultepec  fell, 
And  that  ended  the  war  —  we  were  beaten : 

No  story  is  left  me  to  tell. 
And  now  they  come  back  to  invade  us, 

Though  not  with  the  bullet  and  blade; 
They  are  here  with  their  goods  on  a  railway, 

To  conquer  the  country  by  trade." 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


Chapultepec  still  remained,  and  on  the  morning 
of  September  13  two  storming  parties  rushed  it. 
swarmed  over  the  walls,  swept  back  the  garrison, 
and  planted  the  American  flag  on  the  ramparts. 
The  Mexican  army  hastened  to  evacuate  the  city, 
and  on  September  14  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floated 
over  the  capital  of  Mexico. 


THE    SIEGE   OF   CHAPULTEPEC 

[September  13,  1847) 

WIDE  o'er  the  valley  the  pennons  are  flutter 
ing, 

War's  sullen  story  the  deep  guns  are  mutter 
ing, 

Forward !  blue- jackets,  in  good  steady  order. 
Strike  for  the  fame  of  your  good  northern 

border ; 

Forever  shall  history  tell  of  the  bloody  check 
Waiting  the  foe  at  the  siege  of  Chapultepec. 

Let  the  proud  deeds  of  your  fathers  inspire  ye 

still, 
Think  ye  of  Monmouth,  and  Princeton,  and 

Bunker  Hill, 
Come  from  your  hallowed  graves,  famous  in 

story, 

Shades  of  our  heroes,  and  lead  us  to  glory. 
Side  by  side,  son  and  father  with  hoary  head 
Struggle  for  triumph,  or  death  on  a  gory  bed. 

Hark !  to  the  charge !  the  war-hail  is  pattering, 
The  foe  through  our  ranks  red  rain  is  scat 
tering; 

Huzza!  forward!  no  halting  or  flagging  till 
Proudly  the  red  stripes  float  o'er  yon  rocky 
hill. 


Northern   and    Southerner,    let   your   feuds 

smolder; 
Charge!  for  our  banner's  fame,  shoulder  to 

shoulder! 

Flash  the  fort  guns,  and  thunders  their  stun 
ning  swell 

Far  o'er  the  valley  to  white  Popocatapetl, 

Death  revels  high  in  the  midst  of  the  bloody 
sport, 

Bursting  in  flame  from  each  black-throated 
castle-port, 

Press  on  the  line  with  keen  sabres  dripping 
wet, 

Cheer,  as  ye  smite  with  the  death-dealing 
bayonet ! 

Our  bold  Northern  eagle,  king  of  the  firma 
ment, 

Shares  with  no  rival  the  skies  of  the  conti 
nent. 

Yields  the  fierce  foeman ;  down  let  his  flag  be 
hurled, 

Shout,  as  our  own  from  the  turret  is  wide 
unfurled ! 

Shout !  for  long  shall  Mexico  mourn  the  wreck 

Of  her  proud  state  at  the  siege  of  Chapultepec. 
WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE. 


While  these  victories  were  being  won  in  Mexico, 
General  Stephen  W.  Kearny,  at  the  head  of  the 
Army  of  the  West,  had  seized  the  territory  of 
New  Mexico,  and  established  a  civil  government 
at  Santa  F6.  He  then  proceeded  to  California, 
defeated  the  Mexicans  at  Sacramento,  and  took 
possession  of  that  province. 


ILLUMINATION   FOR  VICTORIES 
IN   MEXICO 

LIGHT  up  thy  homes,  Columbia, 

For  those  chivalric  men 
Who  bear  to  scenes  of  warlike  strife 

Thy  conquering  arms  again, 
Where  glorious  victories,  flash  on  flash, 

Reveal  their  stormy  way,  — 
Resaca's,  Palo  Alto's  fields, 

The  heights  of  Monterey! 

They  pile  with  thousands  of  thy  foes 

Buena  Vista's  plain; 
With  maids  and  wives,  at  Vera  Cruz, 

Swell  high  the  list  of  slain! 
They  paint  upon  the  Southern  skies 

The  blaze  of  burning  domes,  — 


372 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Their  laurels  dew  with  blood  of  babes! 
Light  up,  light  up  thy  homes! 

Light  up  your  homes,  O  fathers! 

For  those  young  hero  bands, 
Whose   march  is  still  through   vanquished 
towns, 

And  over  conquered  lands! 
Whose  valor,  wild,  impetuous, 

In  all  its  fiery  glow, 
Pours  onward  like  a  lava-tide, 

And  sweeps  away  the  foe! 

For  those  whose  dead  brows  glory  crowns, 

On  crimson  couches  sleeping, 
And  for  home  faces  wan  with  grief, 

And  fond  eyes  dim  with  weeping. 
And  for  the  soldier,  poor,  unknown, 

Who  battled,  madly  brave, 
Beneath  a  stranger  soil  to  share 

A  shallow,  crowded  grave. 

Light  up  thy  home,  young  mother! 

Then  gaze  in  pride  and  joy 
Upon  those  fair  and  gentle  girls, 

That  eagle-eyed  young  boy; 
And  clasp  thy  darling  little  one 

Yet  closer  to  thy  breast, 
And  be  thy  kisses  on  its  lips 

In  yearning  love  impressed. 

In  yon  beleaguered  city 

Were  homes  as  sweet  as  thine; 
Where  trembling  mothers  felt  loved  arms 

In  fear  around  them  twine,  — 
The  lad  with  brow  of  olive  hue, 

The  babe  like  lily  fair, 
The  maiden  with  her  midnight  eyes, 

And  wealth  of  raven  hair. 

The  booming  shot,  the  murderous  shell, 

Crashed  through  the  crumbling  walls, 
And  filled  with  agony  and  death 

Those  sacred  household  halls! 
Then,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  blackened,  lay 

The  sister  by  the  brother, 
And  the  torn  infant  gasped  and  writhed 

On  the  bosom  of  the  mother! 

O  sisters,  if  ye  have  no  tears 

For  fearful  tales  like  these, 
If  the  banners  of  the  victors  veil 

The  victim's  agonies, 


If  ye  lose  the  babe's  and  mother's  cry 

In  the  noisy  roll  of  drums, 
If  your  hearts  with  martial  pride  throb  high, 

Light  up,  light  up  your  homes ! 

GRACE  GREENWOOD. 


The  Mexican  people  knew  themselves  defeated, 
and  were  eager  for  peace.  The  treaty  was  finally 
signed  February  2,  1848.  Mexico  accepted  the 
Rio  Grande  as  her  northern  boundary,  and  ceded 
New  Mexico  and  California  to  the  United  States. 
For  this  territory  the  United  States  was  to  pay 
her  $15,000,000,  and  to  assume  debts  to  the 
amount  of  93, 500,000. 


THE   CRISIS 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 
drouth  and  sand, 

The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  western 
ocean's  strand; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos  to  Gila,  wild 
and  free, 

Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  Califor 
nia's  sea; 

And  from  the  mountains  of  the  east,  to  Santa 
Rosa's  shore, 

The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no 
more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo!  Let  thy  simple  chil 
dren  weep; 

Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of 
Pecos  keep; 

Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's 
pines, 

And  Santa  Barbara  toll  her  bells  amidst  her 
corn  and  vines; 

For  lo!  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with 
eager  eyes  of  gain, 

Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad 
Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound 
the  winds  bring  down 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold 
Nevada's  crown! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein 
of  travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sun 
rise  at  his  back; 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and 
pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp 
fires  shine. 


THE   CRISIS 


373 


O  countrymen  and   brothers!   that  land  of 

lake  and  plain, 
Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat 

with  grain; 
Of   mountains   white   with    winter,   looking 

downward,  cold,  serene, 
On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and 

lapped  in  softest  green; 
Swift  through  whose  black   volcanic  gates, 

o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 
Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's 

dusty  trail! 

Great   spaces   yet   untravelled,   great   lakes 

whose  mystic  shores 
The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon 

oars; 
Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild 

steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 
Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds 

the  Saxon  never  named; 
Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where 

Nature's  chemic  powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will;  all  these 

ye  say  are  ours! 

Forever  ours !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden 

lies: 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung 

across  the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the 

poised  and  trembling  scale? 
Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong 

prevail  ? 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in 

starry  splendor  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the 

tread  of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the 

prophets  told, 
And    brightens   up   the   sky    of   Time   the 

Christian  Age  of  Gold; 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade 

to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her 

serfs  stand  up  as  men ; 
The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations 

born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by 

Stamboul's  Golden  Horn! 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine!  a  day  for  us 

to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's 

seeds  of  woe? 


To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old 

World's  cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth, 

from  the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations 

ran, 
And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and 

wrong  of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven!    Is  this  our  mission?    End 

in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our 

younger,  better  years  ? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours 

in  shadow  turn, 
A  beam  less  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through 

outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a 

blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the 

long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us 

it  stands, 
With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx 

in  Egypt's  sands! 
This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate 

we  spin; 
This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness 

or  sin; 
Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's 

cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of 

cursing  down ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony 

and  shame; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which 

the  prophets  came; 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us;  by  all  the 

hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the 

blackness  of  the  Past; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for 

Earth's  freedom  died, 
O  my  people!   O  my  brothers!  let  us  choose 

the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on 
his  way; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Fran 
cisco's  bay. 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow 
the  vales  with  grain; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bibte 
ill  his  train: 


374 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea 

shall  answer  sea, 
And  mountain   unto  mountain   call,   Praise 

God,  for  we  are  free! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

On  June  12,  1848,  the  last  of  the  United  States 
troops  left  the  City  of  Mexico.  They  were  received 
at  home  with  the  wildest  enthusiasm.  Never 
had  a  nation,  in  modern  times,  fought  so  success 
ful  a  war  in  so  short  a  time. 

THE   VOLUNTEERS 

[18491 

THE  Volunteers!  the  Volunteers! 
I  dream,  as  in  the  by-gone  years, 
I  hear  again  their  stirring  cheers, 
And  see  their  banners  shine, 
What  time  the  yet  unconquered  North 
Pours  to  the  wars  her  legions  forth, 
For  many  a  wrong  to  strike  a  blow 
With  mailed  hand  at  Mexico. 

The  Volunteers!  Ah,  where  are  they 
Who  bade  the  hostile  surges  stay, 
When  the  black  forts  of  Monterey 

Frowned  on  their  dauntless  line? 
When,  undismayed  amid  the  shock 
Of  war,  like  Cerro  Gordo's  rock, 
They  stood,  or  rushed  more  madly  on 
Than  tropic  tempest  o'er  San  Juan  ? 

On  Angostura's  crowded  field 

Their  shattered  columns  scorned  to  yield, 


And  wildly  yet  defiance  pealed 

Their  flashing  batteries'  throats; 
And  echoed  then  the  rifle's  crack, 
As  deadly  as  when  on  the  track 
Of  flying  foe,  of  yore,  its  voice 
Bade  Orleans'  dark-eyed  girls  rejoice. 

Blent  with  the  roar  of  guns  and  bombs, 
How  grandly  from  the  dim  past  comes 
The  roll  of  their  victorious  drums, 

Their  bugle's  joyous  notes, 
When  over  Mexico's  proud  towers, 
And  the  fair  valley's  storied  bowers, 
Fit  recompense  of  toil  and  scars, 
In  triumph  waved  their  flag  of  stars. 

Ah,  comrades,  of  your  own  tried  troop, 
Whose  honor  ne'er  to  shame  might  stoop, 
Of  lion  heart  and  eagle  swoop, 

But  you  alone  remain; 
On  all  the  rest  has  fallen  the  hush 
Of  death;   the  men  whose  battle-rush 
Was  wild  as  sun-loosed  torrent's  flow 
From  Orizaba's  crest  of  snow. 

The  Volunteers!   the  Volunteers! 
God  send  us  peace  through  all  our  years, 
But  if  the  cloud  of  war  appears, 
We'll  see  them  once  again. 
From  broad  Ohio's  peaceful  side. 
From  where  the  Maumee  pours  its  tide, 
From  storm-lashed  Erie's  wintry  shore. 
Shall  spring  the  Volunteers  once  more. 

WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE. 


CHAPTER  VI 


FOURTEEN   YEARS   OF   PEACE 


In  his  message  to  Congress  at  the  opening  of 
the  December  session  of  1847.  President  Polk 
recommended,  among  other  things,  the  construc 
tion  of  a  ship  canal  across  the  Isthmus  of  Panama 
—  a  recommendation  which  was  not  to  bear  fruit 
for  sixty  years. 

THE  SHIP  CANAL  FROM  THE  AT 
LANTIC  TO  THE  PACIFIC 

AN  ODE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE  AND 
THEIR  CONGRESS,  ON  READING  THE  MES 
SAGE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  PRESIDENT 
IN  DECEMBER,  1847 

REND  America  asunder 
And  unite  the  Binding  Sea 


That  emboldens  man  and  tempers  — 
Make  the  ocean  free. 

Break  the  bolt  that  bars  the  passage, 
That  our  River  richly  pours 
Western  wealth  to  western  nations; 
Let  that  sea  be  ours  — 

Ours  by  all  the  hardy  whalers, 
By  the  pointing  Oregon, 
By  the  west-impelled  and  working, 
Unthralled  Saxon  son. 

Long  indeed  they  have  been  wooing, 
The  Pacific  and  his  bride; 


THE   WAR   SHIP    OF   PEACE 


375 


Now  't  is  time  for  holy  wedding  — 
Join  them  by  the  tide. 

Have  the  snowy  surfs  not  struggled 
Many  centuries  in  vain 
That  their  lips  might  seal  the  Union? 
Lock  them  main  to  main. 

When  the  mighty  God  of  nature 
Made  this  favored  continent, 
He  allowed  it  yet  unsevered, 
That  a  race  be  sent. 

Able,  mindful  of  his  purpose, 
Prone  to  people,  to  subdue, 
And  to  bind  the  land  with  iron, 
Or  to  force  it  through. 

What  the  prophet-navigator, 
Seeking  straits  to  his  Catais, 
But  began,  now  consummate  it  — 
Make  the  strait  and  pass. 

Blessed  the  eyes  that  shall  behold  it, 
When  the  pointing  boom  shall  veer, 
Leading  through  the  parted  Andes, 
While  the  nations  cheer! 

There  at  Suez,  Europe's  mattock 
Cuts  the  briny  road  with  skill, 
And  must  Darien  bid  defiance 
To  the  pilot  still? 

Do  we  breathe  this  breath  of  Knowledge 
Purely  to  enjoy  its  zest? 
Shall  the  iron  arm  of  science 
Like  a  sluggard  rest  ? 

Up  then,  at  it!  earnest  people! 
Bravely  wrought  thy  scorning  blade, 
But  there's  fresher  fame  in  store  yet, 
Glory  for  the  spade. 

What  we  want  is  naught  in  envy, 
And  for  all  we  pioneer; 
Let  the  keels  of  every  nation 
Through  the  isthmus  steer. 

Must  the  globe  be  always  girded 

Ere  we  get  to  Bramah's  priest  ? 

Take  the  tissues  of  your  Lowells 

Westward  to  the  East. 

Ye,  that  vanquish  pain  and  distance, 
Ye,  enmeshing  Time  with  wire, 


Court  ye  patiently  forever 
Yon  Antarctic  ire? 

Shall  the  mariner  forever 
Double  the  impending  capes, 
While  his  longsome  and  retracing 
Needless  course  he  shapes? 

What  was  daring  for  our  fathers, 
To  defy  those  billows  fierce, 
Is  but  tame  for  their  descendants; 
We  are  bid  to  pierce. 

Ye  that  fight  with  printing  armies, 
Settle  sons  on  forlorn  track, 
As  the  Romans  flung  their  eagles, 
But  to  win  them  back. 

Who,  undoubting,  worship  boldness, 
And,  if  bafBed,  bolder  rise, 
Shall  we  lag  when  grandeur  beckons 
To  this  good  em  prize? 

Let  the  vastness  not  appal  us; 
Greatness  is  thy  destiny. 
Let  the  doubters  not  recall  us: 
Venture  suits  the  free. 

Like  a  seer,  I  see  her  throning, 
WINLAND  strong  in  freedom's  health, 
Warding  peace  on  both  the  waters, 
Widest  Commonwealth. 

Crowned  with  wreaths  that  still  grow  greener, 
Guerdon  for  untiring  pain, 
For  the  wise,  the  stout,  and  steadfast: 
Rend  the  land  in  twain. 

Cleave  America  asunder, 
This  is  worthy  work  for  thee. 
Hark!  The  seas  roll  up  imploring 
"Make  the  ocean  free." 

FRANCIS  LIEBEK. 


The  famine  in  Ireland  in  1847  awakened  much 
sympathy  in  the  United  States,  and  the  ship 
Jamestown,  laden  with  food,  was  dispatched  to 
Cork,  making  a  remarkably  quick  passage. 


THE  WAR  SHIP  OF  PEACE 

[1847] 

SWEET  land  of  song,  thy  harp  doth  bang 
Upon  the  willow  now, 


376 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


While  famine's  blight  and  fever's  pang 
Stamps  mis'ry  on  thy  brow; 

Yet  take  thy  harp  and  raise  thy  voice, 
Though  weak  and  low  it  be, 

And  let  thy  sinking  heart  rejoice 
In  friends  still  left  to  thee. 

Look  out!  look  out!  across  the  sea 

That  girds  thy  em'rald  shore, 
A  ship  of  war  is  bound  to  thee, 

But  with  no  war-like  store. 
Her  thunders  sleep;   'tis  mercy's  breath 

That  wafts  her  o'er  the  sea; 
She  goes  not  forth  to  deal  out  death, 

But  bears  new  life  to  thee. 

Thy  wasted  hands  can  scarcely  strike 

The  chords  of  grateful  praise, 
Thy  plaintive  tone  is  now  unlike 

The  voice  of  prouder  days; 
Yet,  e'en  in  sorrow,  tuneful  still, 

Let  Erin's  voice  proclaim 
In  bardic  praise  on  ev'ry  hill 

Columbia's  glorious  name. 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 


On  June  8,  1848,  Henry  Clay  was  defeated  by 
Zachary  Taylor  for  the  Whig  nomination  for  the 
presidency. 

ON  THE  DEFEAT  OF  HENRY  CLAY 

[June  8,  1848] 

FALLEN?    How  fallen?    States  and  empires 

fall; 

O'er  towers  and  rock-built  walls, 
And  perished  nations,  floods  to  tempests  call 
With  hollow  sound  along  the  sea  of  time: 

The  great  man  never  falls. 
He  lives,  he  towers  aloft,  he  stands  sublime  — 

They  fall  who  give  him  not 
The  honor  here  that  suits  his  future  name  — 

They  die  and  are  forgot. 
O  Giant  loud  and  blind !  the  great  man's  fame 
Is  his  own  shadow  and  not  cast  by  thee  — 

A  shadow  that  shall  grow 
As  down  the  heaven  of  time  the  sun  descends, 

And  on  the  world  shall  throw 
His  god-like  image,  till  it  sinks  where  blends 
Time's  dim  horizon  with  Eternity. 

WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE  LORD. 


Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,  her  husband,  the  Mar 
quis  Ossoli,  and   their  child,  were  drowned  off 


Fire  Island,  July  16,  1850,  while  returning  from 
Europe  in  the  ship  Elizabeth.  The  ship  was  driven 
ashore  in  a  storm,  and  broken  up  by  the  waves. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OSSOLI 
AND  HIS  WIFE,  MARGARET 
FULLER 

[July  16,  1850] 

OVER  his  millions  Death  has  lawful  power, 
But  over  thee,  brave  D'Ossoli!  none,  none. 
After  a  longer  struggle,  in  a  fight 
Worthy  of  Italy,  to  youth  restored, 
Thou,  far  from  home,  art  sunk  beneath  the 

surge 

Of  the  Atlantic;   on  its  shore;   in  reach 
Of  help;   in  trust  of  refuge;   sunk  with  all 
Precious  on  earth  to  thee  —  a  child,  a  wife! 
Proud  as  thou  wert  of  her,  America 
Is  prouder,  showing  to  her  sons  how  high 
Swells  woman's  courage  in  a  virtuous  breast. 
She  would  not  leave  behind  her  those  she 

loved; 

Such  solitary  safety  might  become 
Others ;  not  her ;  not  her  who  stood  beside 
The  pallet  of  the  wounded,  when  the  worst 
Of  France  and  Perfidy  assailed  the  walls 
Of  unsuspicious  Rome.    Rest,  glorious  soul, 
Renowned  for  the  strength  of  genius,  Mar 
garet! 
Rest  with  the  twain  too  dear !   My  words  are 

few, 

And  shortly  none  will  hear  my  failing  voice, 
But  the  same  language  with  more  full  appeal 
Shall  hail  thee.   Many  are  the  sons  of  song 
Whom  thou  hast  heard  upon  thy  native  plains 
Worthy  to  sing  of  thee :  the  hour  is  come ; 
Take  we  our  seats  and  let  the  dirge  begin. 
WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOB. 


The  following  verses  from  Punch  describe  vari 
ous  events  of  1851  —  the  winning  of  the  interna 
tional  yacht  race  by  the  America;  the  project  for 
a  canal  across  the  isthmus  —  and  comment  upon 
the  ingenuity  of  some  Yankee  inventions. 

THE  LAST  APPENDIX  TO  "YANKEE 
DOODLE" 

[Punch,  1851] 

YANKEE  DOODLE  sent  to  Town 
His  goods  for  exhibition; 

Everybody  ran  him  down, 
And  laugh 'd  at  his  position. 


DANIEL  WEBSTER 


377 


They  thought  him  all  the  world  behind; 

A  goney,  muff,  or  noodle; 
Laugh  on,  good  people,  —  never  mind  — 
Says  quiet  Yankee  Doodle. 

Chorus  —  Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 
Mind   the   music  and   the 

step. 

And    with    the   girls   be 
handy ' 

Yankee  Doodle  had  a  craft, 

A  rather  tidy  clipper. 
And  he  challenged,  while  they  laughed, 

The  Britishers  to  whip  her. 
Their  whole  yacht-squadron  she  outsped, 

And  that  on  their  own  water; 
Of  all  the  lot  she  went  ahead, 

And  they  came  nowhere  arter. 

O'er  Panama  there  was  a  scheme 

Long  talked  of,  to  pursue  a 
Short  route — which  many  thought  a  dream  — 

By  Lake  Nicaragua. 
John  Bull  discussed  the  plan  on  foot, 

With  slow  irresolution, 
While  Yankee  Doodle  went  and  put 

It  into  execution. 

A  steamer  of  the  Collins  line, 

A  Yankee  Doodle's  notion, 
Has  also  quickest  cut  the  brine 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 
And  British  Agents,  no  ways  slow 

Her  merits  to  discover, 
Have  been  and  bought  her  —  just  to  tow 

The  Cunard  packets  over. 

Your  gunsmiths  of  their  skill  may  crack, 

But  that  again  don't  mention: 
I  guess  that  Colts'  revolvers  whack 

Their  very  first  invention. 
By  Yankee  Doodle,  too,  you're  beat 

Downright  in  Agriculture, 
With  his  machine  for  reaping  wheat, 

Chawed  up  as  by  a  vulture. 

You  also  fancied,  in  your  pride, 

Which  truly  is  tarnation, 
Them  British  locks  of  yourn  defied 

The  rogues  of  all  creation ; 
But  Chubbs'  and  Bramah's  Hobbs  has  picked, 

And  you  must  now  be  viewed  all 
As  having  been  completely  licked 

By  glorious  Yankee  Doodle. 


DANIEL   WEBSTER 

[Died  October  24,  1852J 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 

Some  larger  soul  hath  lived  and  wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 
The     boundless    realms     of    deed     and 
thought,  — 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye; 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by: 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes:  a  boy  appears; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun. 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid 
His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 

And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  his  brow:  behold! 

Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 


378 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip, 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew; 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived ;  in  peace  he  died ; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 
Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 
And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


In  1854  a  survey  was  ordered  of  the  Isthmus  of 
Darien,  and  Lieutenant  Isaac  G.  Strain  was  placed 
in  charge  of  the  work.  His  party  was  reduced  to 
great  extremities  in  crossing  the  isthmus,  but  bore 
their  sufferings  with  a  heroism  seldom  surpassed. 


THE   FLAG 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  STRAIN'S  EXPEDITION 
[1854] 

I  NEVER  have  got  the  bearings  quite, 
Though  I 've' followed  the  course  for  many 
a  year, 

If  he  was  crazy,  clean  outright, 

Or  only  what  you  might  say  was  "queer." 

He  was  just  a  simple  sailor  man. 

I  mind  it  as  well  as  yisterday, 
When  we  messed  aboard  of  the  old  Cyane. 

Lord!  how  the  time  does  slip  away! 
That  was  five  and  thirty  year  ago, 

And  I  never  expect  such  times  again, 


For  sailors  was  n't  afraid  to  stow 

Themselves  on  a  Yankee  vessel  then. 
He  was  only  a  sort  of  bosun's  mate, 

But  every  inch  of  him  taut  and  trim; 
Stars  and  anchors  and  togs  of  state 

Tailors  don't  build  for  the  like  of  him. 
He  flew  a  no-account  sort  of  name, 

A  reg'lar  fo'castle  "Jim"  or  "Jack," 
With  a  plain  "McGinnis"  abaft  the  same, 

Giner'ly  reefed  to  simple  "Mack." 
Mack,  we  allowed,  was  sorter  queer,  — 

Ballast  or  compass  was  n't  right. 
Till  he  licked  four  Juicers  one  day,  a  fear 

Prevailed  that  he  had  n't  larned  to  fight. 
But  I  reckon  the  Captain  knowed  his  man, 

When  he  put  the  flag  in  his  hand  the  day 
That  we  went  ashore  from  the  old  Cyane, 

On  a  madman's  cruise  for  Darien  Bay. 

Forty  days  in  the  wilderness 

We  toiled  and  suffered  and  starved  with 

Strain, 
Losing  the  number  of  many  a  mess 

In  the  Devil's  swamps  of  the  Spanish  Main. 
All  of  us  starved,  and  many  died. 

One  laid  down,  in  his  dull  despair; 
His  stronger  messmate  went  to  his  side  — 

We  left  them  both  in  the  jungle  there. 
It  was  hard  to  part  with  shipmates  so; 

But  standing  by  would  have  done  no  good. 
We  heard  them  moaning  all  day,  so  slow 

We  dragged  along  through  the  weary  wood. 
McGinnis,  he  suffered  the  worst  of  all; 

Not  that  he  ever  piped  his  eye 
Or  would  n't  have  answered  to  the  call 

If  they'd  sounded  it  for  "All  hands  to  die." 
I  guess  't  would  have  sounded  for  him  before, 

But  the  grit  inside  of  him  kept  him  strong, 
Till  we  met  relief  on  the  river  shore; 

And  we  all  broke  down  when  it  came  along. 

All  but  McGinnis.   Gaunt  and  tall, 

Touching  his  hat,  and  standing  square: 
"Captain,  the  Flag."  — And  that  was  all; 

He  just  keeled  over  and  foundered  there. 
"The  Flag?"    We  thought  he  had  lost  his 
head  — 

It  might  n't  be  much  to  lose  at  best  — 
Till  we  came,  by  and  by,  to  dig  his  bed, 

And  we  found  it  folded  around  his  breast. 
He  laid  so  calm  and  smiling  there, 

With  the  flag  wrapped  tight  about  his  heart; 
Maybe  he  saw  his  course  all  fair, 

Only  —  we  could  n't  read  the  chart. 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


KANE 


379 


On  February  16.  1857,  Elisha  Kent  Kane, 
explorer  of  the  Arctic,  died  at  Havana,  Cuba, 
•whither  he  had  gone  in  the  hope  of  regaining  a 
health  shattered  by  his  sufferings  ill  the  north. 

KANE 

ALOFT  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  scalp'd  by  keen  winds  that  defend 

the  Pole, 

Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone, 
And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced; 
Fit  type  of  him  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clung  to  the  drifting  floe?, 
By  want  beleaguer'd,  and  by  winter  chased. 
Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen 
waste. 

Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 
Crown'd  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North, 
Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went 

forth. 
And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb  by 

limb; 
His  own   mild  Keystone   State,  sedate  and 

prim, 

Burst  from  decorous  quiet  as  he  came; 
Hot  Southern  lips  with  eloquence  aflame 
Sounded  his  triumph.  Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Proffer'd  its  horny  hand.    The  large-lung'd 
West, 

From  out  its  giant  breast, 
Yell'd  its  frank  welcome.  And  from  main  to 
main. 

Jubilant  to  the  sky, 
Thunder 'd  the  mighty  cry, 
HONOR  TO  KANE! 

In  vain,  in  vain  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses!  All  in  vain  we  pour'd 
The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining 
board 

Sent  the  Loast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
W'ith  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast! 
Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 

Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 

Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  Southern  skies, 
Faded  and  faded!    And  the  brave  young 
heart 

That  the  relentless  Arctic  winds  had  robb  d 


Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  captain,  now  within  his  breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbb'd. 
His  was  the  victory;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp, 

Death  launch 'd  a  whistling  dart; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun! 
Too  late,  too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  Science  and  of  Art! 
Like  to  some  shatter'd  berg  that,  pale  and 

lone. 

Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  tropic  zone, 
And  in  the  burning  day 
Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 

Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it;   so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  Southern  sea, 
And  melted  into  heaven. 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life; 

We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well, 

But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and 

tell 
The  story  of  his  strife; 

Such  homage  suits  him  well, 

Better  than  funeral  pomp  or  passing  bell. 
What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice ! 
Prison'd  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 

With  hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of 
snow! 

Night  lengthening  into  months,  the  raven 
ous  floe 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white 

bear 
Crunches  his  prey.   The  insufficient  share 

Of  loathsome  food, 
The  lethargy  of  famine,  the  despair 

Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued, 

Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmer'd  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind! 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate 

band 
Delirium  stalk 'd,  laying  his  burning  hand 

Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew. 

The  whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 

At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they  grew 
Into   black  thoughts  of  murder;   such   the 

throng 

Of  horrors  bound  the  hero.   High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he  play'd ! 
Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 

To  all  around  him.   By  a  mighty  will 

Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill. 


38o 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrades' 

fate; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  Polar  waters,  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 
He  stands,  until  Spring,  tardy  with  relief, 

Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 
And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world  once 

more, 

To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral 
shore 
Bearing  their  dying  chief. 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of 

gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  woo'd  the  knightly 

state ; 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  toll'd, 
And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-con 
secrate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  lone  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 
Faithfully  kept  through  hunger  and  through 

cold, 

By  the  good  Christian  knight,  ELISHA  KANE  ! 
FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 


On  September  12,  1857,  the  Central  America  was 
lost  at  sea  in  a  great  storm  off  Cape  Hatteras.  Cap 
tain  William  Lewis  Herndon,  of  the  navy,  was  in 
command.  His  tranquil  courage  preserved  disci 
pline  up  to  the  last,  and  until  his  passengers,  offi 
cers,  and  crew  were  all  in  the  boats.  Seeing  that  the 
last  boat  was  already  overloaded.  Captain  Herndon 
refused  to  add  to  its  danger,  and,  ordering  it  off, 
went  down  with  his  ship. 

HERNDON 

[September  12,  1857) 

AY,  shout  and  rave,  thou  cruel  sea, 
In  triumph  o'er  that  fated  deck, 

Grown  holy  by  another  grave  — 
Thou  hast  the  captain  of  the  wreck. 

No  prayer  was  said,  no  lesson  read, 
O'er  him;   the  soldier  of  the  sea: 

And  yet  for  him,  through  all  the  land, 
A  thousand  thoughts  to-night  shall  be. 

And  many  an  eye  shall  dim  with  tears, 
And  many  a  cheek  be  flushed  with  pride; 

And  men  shall  say,  There  died  a  man. 
And  boys  shall  learn  how  well  he  died. 


Ay,  weep  for  him,  whose  noble  soul 
Is  with  the  God  who  made  it  great; 

But  weep  not  for  so  proud  a  death,  — 
We  could  not  spare  so  grand  a  fate. 

Nor  could  Humanity  resign 

That  hour  which  bade  her  heart  beat  high, 
And  blazoned  Duty's  stainless  shield, 

And  set  a  star  in  Honor's  sky. 

O  dreary  night!   O  grave  of  hope! 

O  sea,  and  dark,  unpitying  sky! 
Full  many  a  wreck  these  waves  shall  claim 

Ere  such  another  heart  shall  die. 

Alas,  how  can  we  help  but  mourn 
When  hero  bosoms  yield  their  breath! 

A  century  itself  may  bear 

But  once  the  flower  of  such  a  death; 

So  full  of  manliness,  so  sweet 

With  utmost  duty  nobly  done; 
So  thronged  with  deeds,  so  filled  with  life, 

As  though  with  death  that  life  begun. 

It  has  begun,  true  gentleman ! 

No  better  life  we  ask  for  thee; 
Thy  Viking  soul  and  woman  heart 

Forever  shall  a  beacon  be,  — 

A  starry  thought  to  veering  souls, 

To  teach  it  is  not  best  to  live; 
To  show  that  life  has  naught  to  match 

Such  knighthood  as  the  grave  can  give. 
S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

In  1857  Commodore  Josiah  Tattnall  was  ap 
pointed  flag-officer  of  the  Asiatic  station,  and, 
finding  China  at  war  with  the  allied  English  and 
French  fleets,  went  to  the  scene  of  operations  at 
Pei-ho.  Just  before  an  engagement,  his  flagship 
grounded  and  was  towed  off  by  the  English  boats; 
and  when  he  saw  the  English  in  trouble  shortly 
afterwards,  he  sailed  in  to  their  assistance,  ex 
claiming,  "Blood  is  thicker  than  water!" 

BLOOD  IS  THICKER  THAN  WATER 

[June  25,  1859] 

EBBED  and  flowed  the  muddy  Pei-Ho  by  the 

gulf  of  Pechili, 

Near  its  waters  swung  theyellowdragon-flag; 
Past  the  batteries  of  China,  looking  westward 

we  could  see 
Lazy  junks  along  the  lazy  river  lag; 


BLOOD  IS  THICKER  THAN  WATER 


Villagers  in  near-by  Ta-Kou  toiled  beneath 

their  humble  star, 
On  the  flats  the  ugly  mud  fort  lay  and 

dreamed ; 
While  the  Powhatan  swung  slowly  at  her 

station  by  the  bar, 

While  the  Toey-Wan  with  Tattnall  onward 
steamed. 

Lazy  East  and  lazy  river,  fort  of  mud  in  lazy 

June, 
English  gunboats  through  the  waters  slowly 

fare, 
With  the  dragon-flag  scarce  moving  in  the 

lazy  afternoon 
O'er  the  mud-heap  storing  venom  in  the 

glare. 
We  were  on  our  way  to  Peking,  to  the  Son  of 

Heaven's  throne, 
White  with  peace  was  all  our  mission  to  his 

court, 
Peaceful,  too,  the  English  vessels  on  the  turbid 

stream  bestrewn 
Seeking  passage  up  the  Pei-Ho  past  the  fort. 

By  the  bar  lay  half  the  English,  while  the  rest, 

with  gallant  Hope, 
Wrestled  with  the  slipping  ebb-tide  up  the 

stream ; 
They  had  cleared  the  Chinese  irons,  reached 

the  double  chain  and  rope. 
Where  the  ugly  mud  fort  scowled  upon  their 

beam  — 
Boom  !  the  heavens  split  asunder  with  the 

thunder  of  the  fight 

As  the  hateful  dragon  made  its  faith  a  mock ; 
Every  cannon  spat  its  perfidy,  each  casemate 

blazed  its  spite, 

Crashing  down  upon  the  English,  shock 
on  shock. 

In  his  courage  Rason  perished,  brave  Mc- 

Kenna  fought  and  fell; 
Scores  were  dying  as  they'd   lived,   like 

valiant  men; 
And  the  meteor  flag  that  upward  prayed  to 

Heaven  from  that  hell, 
Wept  below  for  those  who  ne'er  should 

weep  again. 

Far  away  the  English  launches  near  the  Pow 
hatan  swung  slow, 

All  despairing,  useless,  out  of  reach  of  war, 
Knew  their  comrades  in  the  battle,  felt  them 

reel  beneath  the  blow, 
Lying  helpless  'gainst  the  ebb-tide  by  the  bar. 


On  the  Toey-Wan  stood  Tattnall,  Stephen 

Trenchard  by  his  side  — 
"  Old  Man  "  Tattnall,  he  who  dared  at  Vera 

Cruz,  — 
Saw  here,  crippled  by  the  cannon ;  saw  there, 

throttled  by  the  tide, 
Men  of  English  blood  and  speech  —  could 

he  refuse? 
I'll  be  damned,  says  he  to  Trenchard,  if  old 

Tattnall  '*  standing  by, 
Seeing  white  men  butchered  here  by  such  a  foe. 
Where 's  my  barge  ?  No  side-arms,  mind  you  I 

See  those  English  fight  and  die  — 
Blood  is  thicker,  sir,  than  water.   Let  us  go. 

Quick  we  man  the  boat,  and  quicker  plunge 

into  that  devil's  brew  — 
"An  official  call,"  and  Tattnall  went  in 

state. 
Trenchard 's  hurt,  our  flag  in  ribbons,  and  the 

rocking  barge  shot  through, 
Hart,  our  coxswain,  dies  beneath  the  Chi 
nese  hate; 
But  the  cheers  those  English  give  us  as  we 

gain  their  Admiral's  ship 
Make  the  shattered  boat  and  weary  arms 

seem  light  — 
Then  the  rare  smile  from  "Old"  Tattnall, 

and  Hope's  hearty  word  and  grip, 
Lying  wounded,  bleeding,  brave  in  hell's 
despite. 

Tattnall  nods,  and  we  go  forward,  find  a  gun 

no  longer  fought  — 
What  is  peace  to  us  when  all  its  crew  lie 

dead? 
One  bright  English  lad  brings  powder  and  a 

wounded  man  the  shot, 
And  we  scotch  that  Chinese  dragon,  tail  and 

head. 
Hands  are  shaken,  faith  is  plighted,  sounds 

our  Captain's  cheery  call, 
In  a  British  boat  we  speed  us  fast  and  far; 
And  the  Toey-Wan  and  Tattnall  down  the 

ebb-tide  slide  and  fall 
To  the  launches  lying  moaning  by  the  bar. 

Eager  for  an  English  vengeance,  battle-light 

on  every  face, 
See  the  Clustered  Stars  lead  on  the  Triple 

Cross! 
Cheering,  swinging  into  action,  valiant  Hope 

takes  heart  of  grace 

From  the  cannon's  cloudy  roar,  the  lan 
yards'  toss 


382 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


How   they   fought,    those   fighting   English! 

How  they  cheered  the  Toey-Wan, 
Cheered  our  sailors,  cheered  "  Old  "  Tatt- 

nall,  grim  and  gray! 
And  their  cheers  ring  down  the  ages  as  they 

rang  beneath  the  sun 

O'er  those  bubbling,  troubled  waters  far 
away. 

Ebbs  and  flows  the  muddy  Pei-Ho  by  the  gulf 

of  Pechili, 

Idly  floats  beside  the  stream  the  dragon-flag ; 
Past  the  batteries  of  China,  looking  westward 

still  you  see 

Lazy  junks  along  the  lazy  river  lag. 
Let  the  long,  long  years  drip  slowly  on  that 

lost  and  ancient  land, 
Ever  dear  one  scene  to  hearts  of  gallant  men ; 
There's   a    hand-clasp   and    a    heart-throb, 

there's  a  word  we  understand: 
Blood  is  thicker,  sir,  than  water,  now  as  then. 
WALLACE  RICE. 

In  the  fall  of  1860  the  Prince  of  Wales,  travel 
ling  as  Baron  Renfrew,  paid  a  visit  to  the  United 
States,  lasting  from  September  21  to  October  20. 
He  was  the  recipient  of  many  attentions,  and  a 
great  ball  was  given  in  his  honor  at  the  Academy 
of  Music  in  New  York  city.  While  the  ball  was  in 
progress,  a  portion  of  the  floor  gave  way,  but  no 
one  was  injured. 

BARON  RENFREW'S  BALL 

[October,  1860] 

'T  WAS  a  grand  display  was  the  prince's  ball, 
A  pageant  or  fete,  or  what  you  may  call 

A  brilliant  coruscation, 
Where  ladies  and  knights  of  noble  worth 
Enchanted  a  prince  of  royal  birth 

By  a  royal  demonstration. 

Like  queens  arrayed  in  their  regal  guise, 
They  charmed  the  prince  with  dazzling  eyes, 

Fair  ladies  of  rank  and  station, 
Till  the   floor  gave   way,   and   down   they 

sprawled, 
In  a  tableaux  style,  which  the  artists  called 

A  floor-all  decoration. 

At  the  prince's  feet  like  flowers  they  were  laid, 
In  the  brightest  bouquet  ever  made, 

For  a  prince's  choice  to  falter  — 
Perplexed  to  find,  where  all  were  rare, 
Which  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

To  cull  for  a  queenly  altar. 


But  soon  the  floor  was  set  aright, 
And  Peter  Cooper's  face  grew  bright, 

When,  like  the  swell  of  an  organ, 
All  hearts  beat  time  to  the  first  quadrille, 
And  the  prince  confessed  to  a  joyous  thrill 

As  he  danced  with  Mrs.  Morgan. 

Then  came  the  waltz  —  the  Prince's  Own  — 
And  every  bar  and  brilliant  tone 

Had  music's  sweetest  grace  on; 
But  the  prince  himself  ne'er  felt  its  charm 
Till  he  slightly  clasped,  with  circling  arm, 

That  lovely  girl,  Miss  Mason. 

But  ah!   the  work  went  bravely  on, 
And  meek-eyed  Peace  a  trophy  won 

By  the  magic  art  of  the  dancers; 
For  the  daring  prince's  next  exploit 
Was  to  league  with  Scott's  Camilla  Hoyt, 

And  overcome  the  Lancers. 

Besides  these  three,  he  deigned  to  yield 
His  hand  to  Mrs.  M.  B.  Field, 

Miss  Jay  and  Miss  Van  Buren; 
Miss  Russell,  too,  was  given  a  place  — 
All  beauties  famous  for  their  grace 

From  Texas  to  Lake  Huron. 

With  Mrs.  Kernochan  he  "lanced," 
With  Mrs.  Edward  Cooper  danced, 

With  Mrs.  Belmont  capered; 
With  fair  Miss  Fish,  in  fairy  rig, 
He  tripped  a  sort  of  royal  jig, 

And  next  Miss  Butler  favored. 

And  thus,  'mid  many  hopes  and  fears, 
By  the  brilliant  light  of  the  chandeliers, 

Did  they  gayly  quaff  and  revel; 
Well  pleased  to  charm  a  royal  prince  — 
The  only  one  from  old  England  since 

George  Washington  was  a  rebel. 

And  so  the  fleeting  hours  went  by, 

And  watches  stopped  —  lest  Time  should  fly  — 

Or  that  they  winding  wanted ; 
Old  matrons  dozed,  and  papas  smiled, 
And  many  a  fair  one  was  beguiled 

As  the  prince  danced  on,  undaunted. 

'T  is  now  a  dream  —  the  prince's  ball, 
Its  vanished  glories,  one  and  all, 

The  scenes  of  the  fairy  tales; 
For  Cinderella  herself  was  there, 
And  Barnum  keeps  for  trial  fair 
The  beautiful  slipper  deposited  there 

By  his  highness,  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE. 


PART   IV 


THE  CIVIL  WAR 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword : 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment-seat : 
Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him !  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marchiner  on. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


CHAPTER  I 


THE   SLAVERY   QUESTION 


Negro  slavery  in  the  United  States  began  in 
1619,  when  a  cargo  of  Africans  was  sold  in  Vir 
ginia.  It  gradually  spread  to  all  the  states,  but 
by  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  it  had 
been  abolished  in  Massachusetts,  Pennsylvania, 
New  Hampshire,  Connecticut,  Rhode  Island,  Ver 
mont,  New  York,  and  New  Jersey.  The  ordinance 
of  1787  forbade  slavery  in  the  Northwest;  but  the 
purchase  of  Louisiana  in  1803  added  greatly  to 
slave  territory.  The  fight  over  the  admission  of 
Missouri  (1817-21),  resulting  in  the  "Missouri 
Compromise,"  did  much  to  intensify  bitterness  of 
feeling.  Finally,  in  December,  1833,  the  American 
Anti-Slavery  Society  was  organized  at  Phila 
delphia,  with  a  platform  of  principles  formulated 
by  William  Lloyd  Garrison. 

TO  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

[Read  at  the  Convention  which  formed  the 
American  Anti-Slavery  Society,  in  Philadelphia. 
December,  1833.] 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  for  thou  -hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 
A  searcher  after  fame; 


That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee? 

Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom! 
Then  onward  w'ith  a  martyr's  zeal; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Branches  of  this  society  multiplied  rapidly,  and 
in  order  to  counteract  their  influence,  a  great  pro- 
slavery  meeting  was  held  at  Charleston,  S.  C., 
September  4,  1835.  The  newspaper  report  that 
"the  clergy  of  all  denominations  attended  in  a 
body,  lending  their  sanction  to  the  proceedings, 
and  adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impressive 
character  of  the  scene,"  drew  a  fiery  protest  from 
Whittier. 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS 

[September  4,  1835J 

JUST  God !  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing 
lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light! 

What !  preach,  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks,  and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 


386 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


What !   servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine! 
Just  God  and  holy!    is  that  church,  which 
lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and 
burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toil  ng  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord !   how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
.And  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
'Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite? 
•Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  ibright  and  glorious  crown ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire   is  with   the  price  of 

blood; 
Perverting, 'darkening,  changing,  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish;   and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  ;the  people,  in  the  light 

(Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty  and 

Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the  earth  be 

known 
As  in  their  home  above. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


In  April,  1848,  an  attempt  WE.S  marie  to  abduct 
seventy-seven  slaves  from  Washington  in  the 
schooner  Pearl.  The  slaves  were  speedily  recap 
tured  and  sold  South,  while  their  defenders  barely 
escaped  with  their  lives  from  an  infuriated  mob. 
The  Abolitionists  in  Congress  determined  to  evoke 
from  that  body  some  expression  of  sentiment  on 
the  subject.  On  the  20th  of  April  Senator  Hale 
introduced  a  resolution  implying  sympathy  with 
the  negroes.  It  stirred  the  slaveholders  to  un 
usual  intemperance  of  language. 

THE   DEBATE   IN   THE   SENNIT 

SOT  TO   A  NUSRY   RHYME 
[April  20,  1848] 

"HERE  we  stan'  on  the  Constitution, by  thun 
der! 

It 's  a  fact  o'  wich  ther  's  bushels  o'  proofs ; 
Fer  how  could  we  trample  on  't  so,  I  wonder, 
Ef  't  worn't  thet  it 's  oilers  under  our  hoofs  ? " 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he; 
"Human  rights  haint  no  more 
Right  to  come  on  this  floor, 
No  more'n  the  man  in  the  moon,"  sez  he. 

"The  North  haint  no  kind  o'  bisness  with 

nothin', 
An'  you've  no  idee  how  much  bother  it 

saves: 

We  aint  none  riled  by  their  frettin'  an'  frothin', 
We're   used  to   layin'   the   string  on   our 

slaves," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
Sez  Mister  Foote, 
"I  should  like  to  shoot 
The  holl  gang,  by  the  gret  horn  spoon  ! " 
sez  he. 

"Freedom's  keystone  is  Slavery,  thet  ther's 

no  doubt  on. 
It's  sutthin'  thet 's  —  wha'  d'  ye  call  it  ?  — 

divine,  — 
An'  the  slaves  thet  we  oilers  make  the  most 

out  on 

Air  them  north  o'  Mason  an'  Dixon's  line,' 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Fer  all  thet,"  sez  Mangum, 
"'T  would  be  better  to  hang  'em 
An'  so  git  red  on  'em  soon,"  sez  he. 

"The  mass  ough'  to  labor  an*  we  lay  on 

soffies, 

Thet's  the  reason  I  want  to  spread  Free 
dom's  area; 


THE  DEBATE  IN  THE  SENNIT 


387 


It  puts  all  the  cunninest  on  us  in  office, 
An'  reelises  our  Maker's  orig'nal  idee," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Thet's  ez  plain,"  sez  Cass, 
"Ez  thet  some  one's  an  ass, 
It's  ez  clear  ez  the  sun  is  at  noon,"  sez  he. 

"  Now  don't  go  to  say  I  'm  the  friend  of  op 
pression, 
But  keep  all  your  spare  breath  fer  coolin' 

your  broth, 

Fer  I  oilers  hev  strove  (at  least  thet 's  my  im 
pression) 
To  make  cussed  free  with  the  rights  o'  the 

North," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he ;  — 
"Yes,"  sez  Davis  o'  Miss., 
"The  perfection  o'  bliss 
Is  in  skinnin'  thet  same  old  coon,"  sez 
he. 

"Slavery's  a   thing  thet  depends  on   com 
plexion, 
It's  God's  law  thet  fetters  on  black  skins 

don't  chafe; 

Ef  brains  wuz  to  settle  it  (horrid  reflection !) 
Wich  of  our  onnable  body  'd  be  safe  ? " 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
Sez  Mister  Hannegan, 
Afore  he  began  agin, 
"Thet   exception   is   quite   oppertoon," 
sez  he. 

"Gen'nle  Cass,  Sir,  you  need  n't  be  twitchin' 

your  collar, 
Your  merit 's  quite  clear  by  the  dut  on  your 

knees, 
At  the  North  we  don't  make  no  distinctions 

o'  color; 
You  can  all  take  a  lick  at  our  shoes  wen 

you  please," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
Sez  Mister  Jarnagin, 
"They  wun't  hev  to  larn  agin, 
They  all  on  'em  know  the  old  toon," 
sez  he. 

"The  slavery  question  aint  no  ways  bewil- 

derin', 
North  an'  South  hev  one  int'rest,  it's  plain 

to  a  glance; 
No'thern  men,  like  us  patriarchs,  don't  sell 

their  childrin, 

But  they  du  sell  themselves,  ef  they  git  a 
good  chance," 


Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 

Sez  Atherton  here, 

"This  is  gittin'  severe, 
I  wish   I  could  dive  like  a  loon,"  sez 

he. 

"It'll  break  up  the  Union,  this  talk  about 

freedom, 
An'  your  fact'ry  gals  (soon  ez  we  split)  '11 

make  head, 

An'  gittin'  some  Miss  chief  or  other  to  lead  'em, 
'11  go  to  work  raisin'  permiscoous  Ned," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Yes,  the  North,"  sez  Colquitt, 
"  Ef  we  Southeners  all  quit, 
Would  go  down  like  a  busied  balloon," 
sez  he. 

"  Jest  look  wut  is  doin',  wut  annyky  's  brewin' 
In  the  beautiful  clime  o'  the  olive  an'  vine. 
All  the  wise  aristoxy  's  atumblin'  to  ruin, 
An'    the   sankylot  's   drorin'   an'  drinkin' 

their  wine," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Yes,"  sez  Johnson,  "in  France 
They're  beginnin'  to  dance 
Beelzebub's  own  ngadoon,"  sez  he. 

"The  South  's  safe  enough,  it  don't  feel  a 

mite  skeery, 
Our  slaves  in  their  darkness  an'  dut  air  tu 

blest 

Not  to  welcome  with  proud  hallylugers  the  ery 
Wen  our  eagle  kicks  yourn  from  the  nay- 

tional  nest," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Oh,"  sez  Westcott  o'  Florida, 
"Wut  treason  is  horrider 
Than  our  priv'leges  tryin'  to  proon?" 
sez  he. 

"It's  'coz  they're  so  happy,  thet,  wen  crazy 

sarpints 
Stick  their  nose  in  our  bizness,  we  git  so 

darned  riled; 
We  think  it's  our  dooty  to  give  pooty  sharp 

hints, 
Thet  the  last  crumb  of  Eden  on  airth  sha'n't 

be  spiled," 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he;  — 
"Ah,"  sez  Dixon  H.  Lewis, 
"It  perfectly  true  is 

Thet  slavery  's  airth  s  grettest  boon," 
sez  he. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


388 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


On  March  7,  1850,  Daniel  Webster  delivered 
in  the  Senate  his  famous  speech  on  slavery,  in 
which  he  declared  for  the  exclusion  of  slavery 
from  new  territory,  but  called  attention  to  the 
pledge  which  had  been  given  to  permit  slavery 
south  of  the  line  of  36°  30',  and  gave  his  support 
to  the  fugitive  slave  bill  introduced  by  a  Virginia 
senator.  The  speech  created  a  sensation;  Webster 
was  overwhelmed  with  abuse,  and  made  the  tar 
get  for  one  of  the  greatest  poems  of  denunciation 
in  the  language. 

ICHABOD 

[March  7,  1850] 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now. 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled; 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 
To  his  dead  fame; 


Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 
And  hide  the  shame! 

JOHN  GEEENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  feeling  at  the  North  against  slavery  was 
soon  intensified  in  bitterness  by  the  execution  of 
the  fugitive  slave  law,  which,  in  a  way,  made 
Northern  states  participants  in  the  detested  traffic. 
On  April  3,  1851,  a  fugitive  slave  named  Thomas 
Sims  was  arrested  at  Boston,  adjudged  to  his 
owner,  and  put  on  board  a  vessel  bound  for 
Savannah.  Other  efforts  to  enforce  the  law 
proved  abortive,  and  it  was  soon  evident  that  it 
was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  dead  letter. 

THE   KIDNAPPING   OF   SIMS 
[April  3,  1851] 

SOULS  of  the  patriot  dead 
On  Bunker's  height  who  bled ! 

The  pile,  that  stands 
On  your  long-buried  bones  — 
Those  monumental  stones  — 
Should  not  suppress  the  groans 

This  day  demands. 

For  Freedom  there  ye  stood ; 
There  gave  the  earth  your  blood; 

There  found  your  graves; 
That  men  of  every  clime, 
Faith,  color,  tongue,  and  time, 
Might,  through  your  death  sublime, 

Never  be  slaves. 

Over  your  bed,  so  low, 
Heard  ye  not,  long  ago, 

A  voice  of  power 
Proclaim  to  earth  and  sea, 
That  where  ye  sleep  should  be 
A  home  for  Liberty 

Till  Time's  last  hour? 

Hear  ye  the  chains  of  slaves, 
Now  clanking  round  your  graves  ? 

Hear  ye  the  sound 
Of  that  same  voice  that  calls 
From  out  our  Senate  halls, 
"Hunt  down  those  fleeing  thralls, 

With  horse  and  hound!" 

That  voice  your  sons  hath  swayed ! 
'T  is  heard,  and  is  obeyed ! 

This  gloomy  day 
Tells  you  of  ermine  stained, 
Of  Justice's  name  profaned, 
Of  a  poor  bondman  chained 

And  borne  away! 


BURIAL   OF   BARBER 


389 


Over  Virginia's  Springs, 

Her  eagles  spread  their  wings, 

Her  Blue  Ridge  towers  — 
That  voice  —  once  heard  with  awe  — 
Now  asks,  "Who  ever  saw, 
Up  there,  a  higher  law 

Than  this  of  ours?" 

Must  we  obey  that  voice? 
When  God  or  man 's  the  choice, 

Must  we  postpone 
Him,  who  from  Sinai  spoke? 
Must  we  wear  slavery's  yoke? 
Bear  of  her  lash  the  stroke, 

And  prop  her  throne  ? 

Lashed  with  her  hounds,  must  we 
Run  down  the  poor  who  flee 

From  Slavery's  hell  ? 
Great  God !  when  we  do  this 
Exclude  us  from  thy  bliss; 
At  us  let  angels  hiss 

From  heaven  that  fell! 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 

Abolition  agitation  was  given  new  fuel  when, 
on  May  30,  1854,  Congress  passed  the  famous 
Kansas-Nebraska  Bill,  setting  off  the  southern 
portion  of  Nebraska  into  a  new  territory  called 
Kansas,  and  leaving  the  question  of  slavery  or 
no-slavery  to  be  decided  by  its  inhabitants.  The 
fight  for  Kansas  began  at  once.  Slaveholders  from 
Missouri  poured  into  the  new  territory,  and  in 
New  England  an  Emigrant  Aid  Society  was 
formed,  which  started  large  parties  of  Free-Soilers 
to  Kansas.  The  first  party  started  in  July,  1854, 
and  John  G.  Whittier  sent  them  a  hymn,  which 
was  sung  over  and  over  during  the  long  journey. 

.     THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS 

[July.  1854] 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine! 

We're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow: 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 


We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun! 

We'll  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  lathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB. 


The  pro-slavery  men  soon  resorted  to  violence. 
In  December  fifteen  hundred  Missourians  laid 
siege  to  Lawrence,  where  most  of  the  Free-Soilers 
had  settled.  The  Free-Soilers  threw  up  earth 
works  and  mustered  six  hundred  men  to  defend 
them,  among  them  John  Brown  and  his  four  sons 
from  Osawatomie.  One  Free-Soiler,  Thomas 
Barber,  was  killed  under  discreditable  circum 
stances;  but  the  Missourians  were  persuaded  to 
withdraw  before  there  were  further  hostilities. 


BURIAL  OF   BARBER 

[December  6,  1855J 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

Wrhat  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill. 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below. 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
W7ith  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace! 

One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  one! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow. 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 


390 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Patience,  friends!  The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  His  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded:  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the  Law  shakes  hands  with  Crime, 
What  is  left  us  but  to  wait. 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends!  The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  ui  ahall  pray; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign:  "Endure." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death, 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame! 


Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Affairs  in  Kansas  went  from  bad  to  worse. 
Bands  of  armed  emigrants  poured  into  the  state 
from  the  south,  and  such  disorder  followed  that 
on  August  25,  1856,  the  governor  proclaimed  the 
territory  in  a  state  of  insurrection.  On  September 
14  a  force  of  twenty-five  hundred  Missourians 
again  attacked  Lawrence,  but  were  beaten  off. 

THE   DEFENCE   OF   LAWRENCE 

[September  14,  1856] 

ALL  night  upon  the  guarded  hill, 

Until  the  stars  were  low, 
Wrapped  round  as  with  Jehovah's  will, 

We  waited  for  the  foe; 
All  night  the  silent  sentinels 

Moved  by  like  gliding  ghosts; 
All  night  the  fancied  warning  bells 

Held  all  men  to  their  posts. 

We  heard  the  sleeping  prairies  breathe, 

The  forest's  human  moans, 
The  hungry  gnashing  of  the  teeth 

Of  wolves  on  bleaching  bones; 
We  marked  the  roar  of  rushing  fires, 

The  neigh  of  frightened  steeds, 
The  voices  as  of  far-off  lyres 

Among  the  river  reeds. 

We  were  but  thirty-nine  who  lay 

Beside  our  rifles  then; 
We  were  but  thirty-nine,  and  they 

Were  twenty  hundred  men. 
Our  lean  limbs  shook  and  reeled  about, 

Our  feet  were  gashed  and  bare, 
And  all  the  breezes  shredded  out 

Our  garments  in  the  air. 


They  came:  the  blessed  Sabbath  day, 

That  soothed  our  swollen  veins, 
Like  God's  sweet  benediction,  lay 

On  all  the  singing  plains; 
The  valleys  shouted  to  the  sun, 

The  great  woods  clapped  their  hands, 
And  joy  and  glory  seemed  to  run 

Like  rivers  through  the  lands. 


And  then  our  daughters  and  our  wives, 

And  men  whose  heads  were  white, 
Rose  sudden  into  kingly  lives 

And  walked  forth  to  the  fight; 
And  we  drew  aim  along  our  guns 

And  calmed  our  quickening  breath, 
Then,  as  is  meet  for  Freedom's  sons, 

Shook  loving  hands  with  Death. 

And  when  three  hundred  of  the  foe 

Rode  up  in  scorn  and  pride. 
Whoso  had  watched  us  then  might  know 

That  God  was  on  our  side; 
For  ail  at  once  a  mighty  thrill 

Of  grandeur  through  us  swept, 
And  strong  and  swiftly  down  the  hill 

Like  Gideons  we  leapt. 

And  all  throughout  that  Sabbath  day 

A  wall  of  fire  we  stood, 
And  held  the  baffled  foe  at  bay, 

And  streaked  the  ground  with  blood. 
And  when  the  sun  was  very  low 

They  wheeled  their  stricken  flanks, 
And  passed  on,  wearily  and  slow, 

Beyond  the  river  banks. 

Beneath  the  everlasting  stars 

We  bended  child-like  knees, 
And  thanked  God  for  the  shining  scars 

Of  His  large  victories. 
And  some,  who  lingered,  said  they  heard 

Such  wondrous  music  pass 
As  though  a  seraph's  voice  had  stirred 

The  pulses  of  the  grass. 

RICHARD  REALF. 

A  bill  for  the  admission  of  Kansas  under  a 
constitution  permitting  slavery  was  introduced 
in  Congress  in  February,  1858,  and  occasioned  one 
of  the  most  acrimonious  debates  ever  heard  at.  the 
Capital.  In  the  House,  a  fist  fight  occurred  be 
tween  Keitt  of  South  Carolina,  and  Grow  of 
Pennsylvania.  The  bill  was  passed  on  May  4. 

THE   FIGHT  OVER  THE   BODY   OF 
KEITT 

A    FRAGMENT    FROM    THE    GREAT    AMERICAN 
EPIC,   THE   WASHINGTONIAD 

IMarch,  1858J 

SING,  O  goddess,  the  wrath,  the  on  tamable 

dander  of  Keitt  — 
Keitt  of  South  Carolina,  the  clear  grit,  the 

tall,  the  ondaunted  — 


Him  that  hath  wopped  his  own  niggers  till 
Northerners  all  unto  Keitt 

Seem  but  as  niggers  to  wop,  and  hills  of  the 
smallest  potatoes. 

Late  and  long  was  the  fight  on  the  Constitution 
of  Kansas; 

Daylight  passed  into  dusk,  and  dusk  into 
lighting  of  gas-lamps;  — 

Still  on  the  floor  of  the  house  the  heroes  un 
wearied  were  fighting. 

Dry  grew  palates  and  tongues  with  excite 
ment  and  expectoration. 

Plugs  were  becoming  exhausted,  and  Re 
presentatives  also. 

Who  led  on  to  the  war  the  anti-Lecomptonite 
phalanx  ? 

Grow,  hitting  straight  from  the  shoulder,  the 
Pennsylvania  Slasher; 

Him  followed  Hickman,  and  Potter  the  wiry, 
from  woody  Wisconsin; 

Washburne  stood  with  his  brother,  —  Cad- 
wallader  stood  with  Elihu; 

Broad  Illinois  sent  the  one,  and  woody  Wis 
consin  the  other. 

Mott  came  mild  as  new  milk,  with  gray  hairs 
under  his  broad  brim, 

Leaving  the  first  chop  location  and  water 
privilege  near  it, 

Held  by  his  fathers  of  old  on  the  willow- 
fringed  banks  of  Ohio. 

Wrathy  Covode,  too,  I  saw,  and  Montgomery 
ready  for  mischief. 

Who  against  these  to  the  floor  led  on  the 
Lecomptonite  legions? 

Keitt  of  South  Carolina,  the  clear  grit,  the  tall, 
the  ondaunted  — 

Keitt  and  Reuben  Davis,  the  ra'al  boss  of 
wild  Mississippi; 

Barksdale,  wearer  of  wigs,  and  Craige  from 
North  Carolina; 

Craige  and  scorny  McQueen,  and  Owen,  and 
Lovejoy,  and  Lamar, 

These  Mississippi  sent  to  the  war,  "tres 
juncti  in  wo." 

Long  had  raged  the  warfare  of  words ;  it  was 
four  in  the  morning; 

Whittling  and  expectoration  and  liquorin"  all 
were  exhausted, 

When  Keitt,  tired  of  talk,  btspake  Reu. 
Davis,  "O  Reuben, 

Grow's  a  tarnation  blackguard,  and  I've 
concluded  to  clinch  him." 

This  said,  up  to  his  feet  he  sprang,  and 
Joos'niiig  his  choker, 


392 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Straighted  himself  for  a  grip,  as  a  b'ar-hunter 

down  in  Arkansas 

Squares  to  go  in  at  the  b'ar,  when  the  danger 
ous  varmint  is  cornered. 
"Come  out.  Grow,"  he  cried,  "you  Black 

Republican  puppy, 
Come  on  the  floor,  like  a  man,  and  darn  my 

eyes,  but  I  '11  show  you  "  — 
Him  answered  straight-hitting  Grow,  "Wall 

now,  I  calkilate,  Keitt, 
No  nigger-driver  shall   leave  his  plantation 

in  South  Carolina, 
Here  to  crack  his  cow-hide  round  this  child's 

ears,  if  he  knows  it." 
Scarce    had    he    spoke  when  the  hand,  the 

chivalrous  five  fingers  of  Keitt, 
Clutched  at  his  throat,  —  had   they  closed, 

the    speeches    of     Grow    had     been 

ended, — 
Never  more  from  a  stump  had  he  stirred  up 

the  free  and  enlightened ;  — 
But  though  smart  Keitt's  mauleys,  the  mauleys 

of  Grow  were  still  smarter; 
Straight  from   the  shoulder  he  shot,  —  not 

Owen  Swift  or  Ned  Adams 
Ever  put  in  his  right  with  more  delicate  feeling 

of  distance. 
As  drops  hammer  on  anvil,  so  dropped  Grow's 

right  into  Keitt 
Just  where  the  jugular  runs  to  the  point  at 

which  Ketch  ties  his  drop-knot;  — 
Prone  like  a  log  sank  Keitt,  his  dollars  rattled 

about  him. 
Forth  sprang  his  friends  o'er  the  body;  first 

Barksdale,  waving-wig-wearer, 
Craige  and  McQueen  and  Davis,  the  ra'al 

hoss  of  wild  Mississippi; 
Fiercely  they  gathered   round   Grow,   cata- 

wampously  up  as  to  chaw  him ; 
But  without  Potter  they  reckoned,  the  wiry 

from  woody  Wisconsin; 
He,  striking  out  right  and  left,  like  a  cata 
mount  varmint  and  vicious, 
Dashed    to  the  rescue,  and   with    him    the 

Washburnes,  Cadwallader,  Elihu; 
Slick  into  Barksdale's  bread-basket  walked 

Potter's  one,  two,  —  hard  and  heavy ; 
Barksdale  fetched  wind  in  a  trice,  dropped 

Grow,  and  let  out  at  Elihu. 
Then  like  a  fountain  had  flowed  the  claret  of 

Washburne  the  elder, 
But  for  Cadwallader's  care,  —  Cadwallader, 

guard  of  his  brother, 
Clutching  at  Barksdale's  nob,  into  Chancery 

soon  would  have  drawn  it. 


Well  was  it  then  for  Barksdale,  the  wig  that 

waved  over  his  forehead: 
Oft'  in  Cadwallader's  hands  it  came,  and,  the 

wearer  releasing, 
Left  to  the  conqueror  naught  but  the  scalp  of 

his  bald-headed  foeman. 
Meanwhile  hither  and  thither,  a  dove  on  the 

waters  of  trouble, 
Moved  Mott,  mild  as  new  milk,  with  his  gray 

hair  under  his  broad  brim, 
Preaching  peace  to  deaf  ears,  and  getting 

considerably  damaged. 
Cautious  Covode  in  the  rear,  as  dubious  what 

it  might  come  to, 

Brandished  a  stone-ware  spittoon  'gainst  who 
ever  might  seem  to  deserve  it,  — 
Little  it  mattered  to  him  whether  Pro-  or  Anti- 

Lecompton, 
So  but  he  found  in  the  Hall  a  foeman  worthy 

his  weapon! 
So  raged  the  battle  of  men,  till  into  the  thick  of 

the  melee, 
Like  to  the  heralds  of  old,  stepped  the  Ser- 

geant-at-Arms  and  the  Speaker. 

Only  a  few  days  later,  on  May  19,  occurred  an 
affair  which  threw  the  country  into  convulsion. 
A  Georgian  named  Charles  A.  Hamilton  gathered 
together  a  gang  of  twenty-five  Missourians,  at 
tacked  the  Free-Soilers  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Marais  des  Cygnes,  took  eleven  prisoners,  marched 
them  off  to  a  gulch  and  shot  them.  The  pursuit 
of  the  assassins  was  so  half-hearted  that  they  all 
escaped. 

LE   MARAIS   DU   CYGNE 

[May  19,  1858] 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun ! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 


HOW  OLD    BROWN  TOOK   HARPER'S   FERRY 


393 


From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn. 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed. 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids. 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild! 
Wail,  desolate  woman! 

Weep,  fatherless  child ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong: 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood ! 


On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset. 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Prominent  among  the  Kansas  Free-Soilers  was 
John  Brown,  a  leader  in  the  guerrilla  warfare. 
United  States  troops  were  finally  thrown  into  the 
territory  to  preserve  peace,  and  Brown,  looking 
around  for  new  fields,  decided  to  strike  a  blow 
in  Virginia.  On  the  night  of  October  16,  1859. 
at  the  head  of  a  small  company,  he  surprised  and 
captured  the  arsenal  at  Harper's  Ferry.  He  was 
attacked  next  day  by  an  overwhelming  force  of 
militia  and  United  States  marines,  his  men  either 
killed  or  captured,  and  he  himself  taken  prisoner. 
He  was  tried  for  treason  and  murder  in  the  first 
degree,  was  found  guilty  and  hanged  December 
2.  1859.  The  men  who  had  been  captured  with 
him  were  hanged  a  few  days  later. 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S 
FERRY 

[October  16,  1859J 

JOHN  BROWN  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  stead 
fast  Yankee  farmer, 

Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stal 
wart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  freedom,  and  the 

Border-strife  grew  warmer, 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his 
absence,  in  the  night; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in  the  morning  —  to  find 
his  house  burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly 

fought  for  freedom; 
Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce, 

invading  band; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might 

Heaven  help  and  speed  'em !  — 
They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies 
from  the  curse  that  blights  the  land; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us!"  and  he 
shoved  his  ramrod  down. 


394 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they 

labored  day  and  even. 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril;  and  their  very 

lives  seemed  charmed, 
Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed 

light  of  Heaven,  — 

In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he 
journeyed  all  unarmed; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Shed   not  a   tear,   but  shut   his  teeth,   and 
frowned  a  terrible  frown! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy,  —  not 

amid  the  heat  of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare,  — 

and  they  loaded  him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as 

they  goad  their  cattle. 
Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at 
last  blew  out  his  brains; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling 
Heaven's  vengeance  down. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of 

the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had 

scathed  and  torn  him  so; 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals;  he  would 

crush  it  day  and  night;  he 
Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it 
blow  for  blow, 

That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods 
or  in  town! 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and 

his  wild  blue  eye  grew  wilder. 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose, 

snuffing  battle  from  afar; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the  Kan 
sas  strife  waxed  milder, 
Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody 
Border  War, 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fear 
ful  glare  and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter 

woes  behind  him, 

Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  statesmen 
all  are  born, 


Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one 

knew  where  to  find  him, 
Or  whether  he'd  turned  parson,  or  was 
jacketed  and  shorn; 
For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a 
parson's  gown. 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades 

and  shovels,  and  such  trifles; 
But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by 

every  train. 

Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  well- 
beloved  Sharp's  rifles; 
And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their 
leader  there  again. 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

'"Boys,  we've  got  an  army  large  enough  to 
march  and  take  the  town! 

"Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free 

the  negroes  and  then  arm  them; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay,  and  all 

the  potent  South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their 

victims  rise  to  harm  them  — 
These  Virginians!    who  believed  not,  nor 
would  heed  the  warning  mouth." 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name 
is  not  John  Brown." 

'T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  even 
ing  of  a  Sunday : 
"  This  good  work,"  declared  the  captain, 

"shall  be  on  a  holy  night!" 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the 

noon  of  Monday, 

With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Stephens,  fif 
teen  privates  —  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged   Potomac,  and 
knocked  the  sentry  down; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the 

muskets  and  the  cannon ; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the 

colonels,  one  by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia 

they  ran  on, 

And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the 
deed  was  done. 


THE  BATTLE   OF   CHARLESTOWN 


395 


Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in 
and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of 

powder  made  he; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the 

Emperor's  coup  d'etat. 
"  Cut  the  wires !  Stop  the  rail-cars !  Hold  the 

streets  and  bridges!"  said  he. 
Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  him 
self  for  guiding  star,  — 
This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown; 

And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off 
and  left  the  town. 

Then  was  riding  and  railroading    and  ex 
pressing  here  and  thither; 
And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and 

the  Charlestown  Volunteers, 
And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  mili 
tia  hastened  whither 

Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten 
thousand  grenadiers. 
General  Brown! 
Osawatomie  Brown! 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North 
was  pouring  down. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped 

from  Old  Brown's  durance, 
And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the  Chivalry 

broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had 

the  marvellous  assurance  — 
Only  nineteen  —  thus  to  seize  the  place  and 
drive  them  straight  about; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped 
around  the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  men 
tioned,  was  too  risky; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the 

Government  Marines, 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired 

their  souls  with  Bourbon  whiskey, 
Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with 
their  ladders  and  machines; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his 
brave  old  crown. 


Tallyho !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the 

baying! 
In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting 

lustily  away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who 

came  too  late  for  slaying, 
Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bul 
lets  in  his  clay; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  be 
tween  them  laid  him  down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels;  how 

they  hastened  on  the  trial; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on 

the  Charlestown  court-house  floor; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn 

of  all  denial; 

What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them,  — 
these  are  known  the  country  o'er. 
"Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,  "  and  all  such  rebels!"  with 
his  most  judicial  frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it !  for  I  tell  you  that 

the  flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring, 

was  first  poured  by  Southern  hands; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins, 

like  the  red  gore  of  the  dragon. 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing 
through  your  slave-worn  lands! 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  've 
nailed  his  coffin  down ! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 
November,  1859. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTOWN 

[December  2,  1859] 

FRESH  palms  for  the  Old  Dominion! 

New  peers  for  the  valiant  Dead! 
Never  hath  showered  her  sunshine 

On  a  field  of  doughtier  dread  — 
Heroes  in  buff  three  thousand, 

And  a  single  scarred  gray  head! 

Fuss,  and  feathers,  and  flurry  — 
Clink,  and  rattle,  and  roar  — 


396 


POE&S  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  old  man  looks  around  him 
On  meadow  and  mountain  hoar; 

The  place,  he  remarks,  is  pleasant, 
I  had  not  seen  it  before. 


Form,  in  your  boldest  order, 
Let  the  people  press  no  nigher! 

Would  ye  have  them  hear  to  his  words  - 
The  words  that  may  spread  like  fire  ? 

'T  is  a  right  smart  chance  to  test  him 
(Here  we  are  at  the  gallows-tree), 

So  knot  the  noose  —  pretty  tightly  — • 
Bandage  his  eyes,  and  we'll  see 

(For  we'll  keep  him  waiting  a  little), 
If  he  tremble  in  nerve  or  knee. 


There,  in  a  string,  we've  got  him! 

(Shall  the  music  bang  and  blow  ?) 
The  chivalry  wheels  and  marches, 

And  airs  its  valor  below. 


Look  hard  in  the  blindfold  visage 
(He  can't  look  back),  and  inquire 

(He  has  stood  there  nearly  a  quarter), 
If  he  does  n't  begin  to  tire  ? 

Not  yet !  how  long  will  he  keep  us, 

To  see  if  he  quail  or  no  ? 
I  reckon  it's  no  use  waiting, 

And  't  is  time  that  we  had  the  show. 


For  the  trouble  —  we  can't  see  why  — 

Seems  with  us,  and  not  with  him, 
As  he  stands  'neath  the  autumn  sky, 

So  strangely  solemn  and  dim ! 
But  high  let  our  standard  flout  it! 

"Sic  Semper"  —  the  drop  comes  down 
And  (woe  to  the  rogues  that  doubt  it !) 

There's  an  end  of  old  John  Brown'. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE 

[December  2,  1859] 

JOHN  BROWN  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

dying  day: 
"I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in 

Slavery's  pay. 


But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have 

striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put 

up  a  prayer  for  me!" 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him 

out  to  die; 
And  lo!   a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little 

child  pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the 

old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and 

kissed  the  negro's  child ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment 
fell  apart; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  for 
gave  the  loving  heart. 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed 
the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  mar 
tyr's  aureole  bent! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through 

evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous   purpose  unstained 

with  human  blood! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought 

which  underlies; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the 

Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  North 
ern  rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on 
the  negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their 
guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and 
justice  more  than  mail! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the 

winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she 

dares  not  harm  the  dove; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open 

wide  to  Love! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


In  the  North,  Brown  was  considered  a  sainted 
martyr — an  estimate  as  untrue  as  the  Southern 
one — and  "John  Brown's  Body"  became  the 
most  popular  marching  song  in  the  war  which 


JOHN   BROWN:   A  PARADOX 


397 


was  to  tollow.    Charles  Sprague  Hall  is  said  to 
have  been  tne  author  of  the  verses. 


GLORY  HALLELUJAH  !  OR  JOHN 
BROWN'S  BODY 

JOHN  BROWN'S  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the 

grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the 

grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the 

grave, 

His  soul  is  marching  on! 
Chorus  —  Glory !  Glory  Hallelujah ! 
Glory !   Glory  Hallelujah ! 
Glory!   Glory  Hallelujah! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the 

Lord! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his 

back. 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
And  they'll  go  marching  on. 

They  '11  hang  Jeff  Davis  on  a  sour  apple  tree, 
As  they  go  marching  on. 

Now  for  the  Union  let's  give  three  rousing 

cheers, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  Hurrah! 
CHARLES  SPRAGUE  HALL. 

A  variant  of  the  John  Brown  song  was  written 
by  Miss  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  and  is  certainly  more 
coherent  and  intelligible  than  the  lines  which 
formed  a  marching  song  for  over  a  million  men. 

JOHN  BROWN 

JOHN  BROWN  died  on  the  scaffold  for  the 

slave ; 
Dark  was  the  hour  when  we  dug  his  hallowed 

grave; 

Now  God  avenges  the  life  he  gladly  gave, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 


John  Brown  sowed  and  the  harvesters  are 

we; 
Honor  to  him  who  has  made  the  bondsman 

free; 

Loved  evermore  shall  our  noble  ruler  be, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the 

grave; 

Bright  o'er  the  sod  let  the  starry  banner  wave ; 
Lo!  for  the  million  he  perilled  all  to  save, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 

John  Brown's  body  through  the  world  is 

marching  on; 
Hail  to  the  hour  when  oppression  shall  be 

gone; 

All  men  will  sing  in  the  better  day's  dawn, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 

John  Brown  dwells  where  the  battle's  strife  is 

o'er; 
Hate  cannot  harm  him,  nor  sorrow  stir  him 

more; 

Earth  will  remember  the  martyrdom  he  bore, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the 

grave; 

John  Brown  lives  in  the  triumph  of  the  brave ; 
John  Brown's  soul  not  a  higher  joy  can  crave, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


JOHN   BROWN:   A   PARADOX 

COMPASSIONATE  eyes  had  our  brave  John 

Brown, 
And   a   craggy  stern   forehead,    a   militant 

frown; 
He,  the  storm-bow  of  peace.  Give  him  volley 

on  volley, 
The   fool   who    redeemed   us   once   of  our 

folly, 
And  the  smiter  that  healed  us,  our  right  John 

Brown ! 

Too  vehement,  verily,  was  John  Brown ! 
For  waiting  is  statesmanlike;  his  the  renown 
Of  the  holy  rash  arm,  the  equipper  and  starter 
Of   freedmen;    aye,   call   him    fanatic   and 

martyr: 
He  can  carry  both  halos,  our  plain  John 

Brown. 


398 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A    scandalous    stumbling-block    was    John 

Brown, 
And  a  jeer;  but  ah!  soon  from  the  terrified 

town, 
In  his  bleeding  track  made  over  hilltop  and 

hollow, 

Wise  armies  and  councils  were  eager  to  follow, 
And  the  children's  lips  chanted  our  lost  John 

Brown. 

Star-led  for  us,  stumbled  and  groped  John 
Brown, 

Star-led,  in  the  awful  morasses  to  drown; 

And  the  trumpet  that  rang  for  a  nation's  up 
heaval, 

From  the  thought  that  was  just,  thro'  the  deed 
that  was  evil, 

Was  blown  with  the  breath  of  this  dumb  John 
Brown! 

Bared  heads  and  a  pledge  unto  mad  John 

Brown! 
Now  the  curse  is  allayed,  now  the  dragon  is 

down, 
Now  we  see,  clear  enough,  looking  back  at  the 

onset, 

Christianity's  flood-tide  and  Chivalry's  sunset 
In  the  old  broken  heart  of  our  hanged  John 

Brown! 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINET. 

The  summer  of  1860  swung  around,  and  on 
April  23  the  National  Democratic  Convention 
met  at  Charleston,  S.  C.  Antagonism  at  once 
developed  between  the  delegates  from  the  South 
and  from  the  North,  the  committee  on  resolutions 
could  not  agree,  and  after  a  week  of  bitter  debate 
the  Northern  platform  was  adopted  and  the 
Southern  delegates  withdrew  in  a  body.  It  was 
the  first  step  toward  secession.  The  convention 
adjourned  to  meet  at  Baltimore,  where  Stephen 
A.  Douglas  was  nominated  for  the  presidency. 

LECOMPTON'S  BLACK  BRIGADE 

A    SONG    OF    THE    CHARLESTON    CONVENTION 
[April  23,  1860] 

SINGLE-HANDED,  and  surrounded  by  Lecomp- 

ton's  black  brigade, 
With  the  treasury  of  a  nation  drained  to  pay 

for  hireling  aid ; 
All  the  weapons  of  corruption  —  the  bribe, 

the  threat,  the  lie  — 
All  the  forces  of  his  rivals  leagued  to  make 

this  one  man  die, 


Yet  smilingly  he  met  them,  his  heart  and  fore 
head  bare, 

And  they  quailed  beneath  the  lightnings  of  his 
blue  eye's  sudden  glare; 

For  all   behind   him  thronging  the  mighty 
people  came, 

With  looks  of  fiery  eagerness  and  words  of 

leaping  flame  — 
"A  Douglas  and  a  Douglas!" 

Hark  to  the  people's  cry, 
Shaking  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 
And  thundering  through  the  sky. 

Crooked  and  weak,  but  envious  as  the  witches 

of  Macbeth, 
Came  old  and  gray  Buchanan  a-hungering 

for  his  death ; 
And  full  of  mortal  strategy,  with  green  and 

rheumy  eyes, 

John    Slidell  —  he  of   Houmas  —  each   poi 
soned  arrow  tries. 
With  cold  and  stony  visage,  lo !   Breckinridge 

is  there, 
While  old  Joe  Lane  keeps  flourishing  his  rusty 

sword  in  air; 
But  still  the  "Little  Giant"  holds  unmoved 

his  fearless  way, 
While  the  great  waves  of  the  people  behind 

him  rock  and  sway  — 
"A  Douglas  and  a  Douglas! 

No  hand  but  his  can  guide, 
In  such  a  strait,  our  ship  of  state 

Across  the  stormy  tide." 

A  poisonous  reptile,  many-scaled  and  with 

most  subtle  fang, 
Crawled  forward  Caleb  Gushing,  while  behind 

his  rattles  rang; 
And,  mounted  on  a  charger  of  hot  and  glossy 

black, 
The  Alabamian  Yancey  dashes  in  with  fell 

attack : 
Lo!  Bayard  is  aroused,  and  quits  his  favorite 

cards  and  dice, 
While  Jeff  Davis  plots  with  Bigler  full  many 

a  foul  device; 
But,  smiling  still,  against  them  all  their  One 

Foe  holds  his  own, 
While  louder  still  and  louder,  the  cry  behind 

has  grown  — 
"A  Douglas  and  a  Douglas, 

Who  every  base  trick  spurns; 
The  people's  will  is  sovereign  still. 

And  that  to  Douglas  turns." 


LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE 


399 


Half  horse,  half  alligator,  here  from  Missis 
sippi's  banks 
The  blatant  Barry  caracoles  and  spurs  along 

the  ranks; 
From   Arkansaw  comes   Burrows,  with   his 

"toothpick"  in  its  sheath, 
While    that    jaundiced    Georgian,    Jackson, 

shows  his  grim  and  ugly  teeth; 
And  Barksdale  barks  his  bitterest  bark,  and 

curls  his  stunted  tail, 
And  snarls  like  forty  thousand  curs  beneath 

a  storm  of  hail; 
But   smiling    now  —  almost   a   laugh  —  the 

Douglas  marches  on, 
While  many  million  voices  rise  in  chorus  like 

to  one  — 
"A  Douglas  and  a  Douglas!" 

Louder  the  war-song  grows: 
"God  speed  the  man  who  fights  so  well 

Against  a  thousand  foes." 

Long  and  fierce  was  the  encounter  beneath  the 

burning  sky, 
Fierce  were  the  threatening  gestures  —  the 

words  rang  shrill  and  high; 
In  a  struggle  most  protracted,  after  seven  and 

fifty  shocks, 
Like  those  old  gigantic  combats  in  which 

Titans  fought  with  rocks 
(And  with  "rocks,"  but  of  a  different  kind, 

no  doubt  Buchanan  fought), 
This  first  pitched  battle  of  the  war  unto  its 

end  was  brought; 
And  smiling  still,  with  stainless  plume  and 

eye  as  clear  as  day, 
The  "Little  Giant"  held  his  own  through  all 

that  murderous  fray: 
"A  Douglas  and  a  Douglas!" 

Still  louder  grows  the  roar 
Which   swells  and   floats   from   myriad 
throats 

Like  waves  on  some  wild  shore. 

Oh !  a  cheer  for  Colonel  Flournoy,  who  to  help 

our  chief  did  press, 
May  memory  perish  if  his  name  we  cease  to 

love  and  bless! 
And  a  cheer  for  all  the  good  and  true  who 

faced  the  music's  note, 
Who  seized  old  Hydra  in  his  den,  and  shook 

him  by  the  throat. 
Though  our  country  stand  forever,  from  her 

record  ne'er  will  fade 
The  glory  of  that  combat  with  Lecompton's 

black  brigade; 


And  when  June  comes  with  her  roses,  at 

Baltimore  we'll  crown 
The  "Little  Giant,"  who  has  met  and  struck 

corruption  down. 
So  a  Douglas  and  a  Douglas! 

While  hearts  have  smiles  and  tears, 
Your  name  will  glow,  your  praise  shall 

flow, 
Through  all  the  coming  years. 

CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE. 


While  the  Democrats  were  thus  divided,  the 
Republicans  had  met  at  Chicago,  adopted  a  plat 
form  protesting  against  the  extension  of  slavery 
in  the  territories,  and  nominated  for  President 
Abraham  Lincoln,  of  Illinois.  On  November  6, 
1860,  Lincoln  was  elected  President,  receiving  one 
hundred  and  eighty  electoral  votes. 


LINCOLN,  THE    MAN    OF    THE 
PEOPLE 

WHEN  the  Norn-Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind 

Hour, 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 
She  bent  the  strenuous  heavens  and  came  down 
To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 
She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  comiron  road  — 
Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 
Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 
Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 
It  was  a  stuff  to  wear  for  centuries, 
A  man  that  matched  the  mountains,  and  com 
pelled 
The  stars  to  look  our  way  and  honor  us. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red 

earth; 

The  tang  and  odor  of  the  primal  things  — 
The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  rocks; 
The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn ; 
The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea; 
The  justice  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 
The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars; 
The  loving-kindness  of  the  wayside  well; 
The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 
That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  weed 
As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind  — 
To  the  grove's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 
That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

And  so  he  came. 

From  prairie  cabin  up  to  Capitol, 
One  fair  Ideal  led  our  chieftain  on. 
Forevermore  he  burned  to  c'o  his  deed 


4oo 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king. 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every 

blow, 

The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

So  came  the  Captain  with  a  mighty  heart: 
And  when  the  step  of  Earthquake  shook  the 

house, 

Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  hold, 
He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.  He  held  his  place  — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree  — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at 

praise. 

And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar  green  with  boughs 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 
EDWIN  MAEKHAM. 


Lincoln's  election  was  the  signal  the  South  had 
'been  awaiting.  On  December  20,  1860,  the  state 
;of  South  Carolina  unanimously  passed  an  ordi- 
mance  of  secession,  and  a  week  later,  the  state 
troops  seized  Castle  Pinckney  and  Fort  Moultrie, 
.in  Charleston  harbor,  and  took  possession  of  the 
'United  States  arsenal  at  Charleston,  with  seventy- 
five  thousand  stands  of  arms. 

BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT 
FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE 

SHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and 
pride,  — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side ! 

She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firma 
ment's  glow, 

And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been 

©ne,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's 

name, 
Fxom  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger 

-of  flame! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch ; 
But  we  said:  "She  is  hasty, — she  does  not 

mean  much." 
We  have  scowled  when  you  uttered  some 

turbulent  threat; 
But   Friendship  still  whispered:     "Forgive 

and  forget." 


Has  our  love  all  died  out?    Have  its  altars 

grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers 

foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the 

chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in 

vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged 

with  their  spoil,  — 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the 

soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from 

their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the 

waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife !  When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last- 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains 

of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  bo- 
low. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky; 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal  when  God  cuts  the 

die! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven 

with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will 

heal! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  fate  that  can  never  be 

won! 
The   star-flowering   banner   must   never   be 

furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the 

world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister,  afar  and  aloof,  — 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof: 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have 

grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our 

door! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Georgia,  Alabama,  Florida,  North  Carolina, 
Mississippi,  and  Louisiana  followed  South  Caro 
lina's  lead  in  seceding  and  seizing  United  States 
forts  and  arsenals.  On  February  4,  1861,  the  first 
Confederate  congress  met  at  Montgomery,  Ala., 
and  a  few  days  later,  Jefferson  Davis,  of  Missis 
sippi,  was  chosen  President,  and  Alexander  H, 


THE  OLD   COVE 


401 


Stephens,  of  Georgia,  Vice-President,  of  the  Con 
federate  States. 

JEFFERSON  D. 

You  'RE  a  traitor  convicted,  you  know  very 
well! 

Jefferson  D.,  Jefferson  D. ! 
You  thought  it  a  capital  thing  to  rebel, 

Jefferson  D.! 

But  there's  one  thing  I'll  say: 
You  '11  discover  some  day, 
When  you  see  a  stout  cotton  cord  hang  from 

a  tree, 

There 's  an  accident  happened  you  did  n't 
foresee, 

Jefferson  D.! 

What  shall  be  found  upon  history's  page? 

Jefferson  D.,  Jefferson  D.! 
Wrhen  a  student  explores  the  republican  age! 

Jefferson  D. ! 
He  will  find,  as  is  meet, 
That  at  Judas's  feet 

You  sit  in  your  shame,  with  the  impotent  plea, 
That  you  hated  the  land  and  the  law  of  the 
free, 
Jefferson  D. ! 

What  do  you  see  in  your  visions  at  night, 

Jefferson  D.,  Jefferson  D.  ? 
Does  the  spectacle  furnish  you  any  delight, 

Jefferson  D.  ? 
Do  you  feel  in  disgrace 
The  black  cap  o'er  your  face, 
While   the   tremor  creeps  down   from  your 

heart  to  your  knee, 

And  freedom,  insulted,  approves  the  decree, 
Jefferson  D.  ? 

Oh!    long  have  we  pleaded,  till  pleading  is 
vain, 

Jefferson  D.,  Jefferson  D.! 
Your  hands  are  imbrued  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain, 

Jefferson  D. ! 
And  at  last,  for  the  right, 
We  arise  in  our  might, 
A  people  united,  resistless,  and  free, 
And  declare  that  rebellion  no  longer  shall  be! 
Jefferson  D. ! 

H.  S.  CORNWELL. 

Davis  was  inaugurated  on  February  18,1 861 ,  and 
declared  in  his  inaugural  that  the  attitude  of  the 


Southern  States  was  purely  one  of  self-defence! 
"All  we  want,"  he  said,  "is  to  be  let  alone." 

THE  OLD  COVE 

"  All  we  ask  is  to  be  let  alone." 
[February  18,  1861J 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp, 
There  sot  an  Old  Cove  in  the  dark  and  damp, 
And  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road 
A  stick  or  a  stone  this  Old  Cove  throwed. 
And  venever  he  flung  his  stick  or  his  stone, 
He'd  set  up  a  song  of  "Let  me  alone." 

"Let  me  alone,  for  I  loves  to  shy 

These  bits  of  things  at  the  passers-by  — 

Let  me  alone,  for  I  've  got  your  tin 

And  lots  of  other  traps  snugly  in ;  — 

Let  me  alone,  I'm  riggin'  a  boat 

To  grab  votever  you  've  got  afloat ;  — 

In  a  veek  or  so  I  expects  to  come 

And  turn  you  out  of  your  'ouse  and  'ome ;  — 

I  'm  a  quiet  Old  Cove,"  says  he,  with  a  groan  : 

"All  I  axes  is  —  Let  me  alone." 

Just  then  came  along  on  the  self -same  vay, 
Another  Old  Cove,  and  began  for  to  say  — 
"Let  you  alone!  That's  comin'  it  strong!  — 
You  've  ben  let  alone  a  darned  sight  too  long ;  — 
Of  all  the  sarce  that  ever  I  heerd ! 
Put  down  that  stick!    (You  may  well  look 

skeered.) 

Let  go  that  stone !  If  you  once  show  fight, 
I'll  knock  you  higher  than  ary  kite. 
You  must  hev  a  lesson  to  stop  your  tricks, 
And   cure  you  of  shying  them  stones  and 

sticks,  — 

And  I'll  hev  my  hardware  back  and  my  cash, 
And  knock  your  scow  into  tarnal  smash, 
And  if  ever  I  catches  you  round  my  ranch, 
I'll  string  you  up  to  the  nearest  branch. 

"  The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed, 
And  keep  a  decent  tongue  in  your  head ; 
For  I  reckon,  before  you  and  I  are  done, 
You'll  wish  you  had  left  honest  folks  alone." 
The  Old    Cove   stopped,   and    t'other  Old 

Cove 

He  sot  quite  still  in  his  cypress  grove, 
And  he  looked  at  his  stick  revolvin'  slow 
Whether  't  were  safe  to  shy  it  or  no,  — 
And  he  grumbled  on,  in  an  injured  tone, 
"All  that  I  axed  vos,  lei  me  alone." 

HENKY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


402 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Texas,  by  a  majority  of  over  three  to  one,  voted 
to  join  the  Confederacy,  and  seized  more  than  a 
million  dollars'  worth  of  government  munitions. 
Some  were  saved  by  the  Union  troops,  notably 
those  at  Fort  Duncan. 


A  SPOOL  OF  THREAD 

[March,  1861] 

WELL,  yes,  I  've  lived  in  Texas  since  the  spring 

of  '61 ; 
And  I'll  relate  the  story,  though  I  fear,  sir, 

when  't  is  done, 
'T  will  be  little  worth  your  hearing,  it  was 

such  a  simple  thing, 
Unheralded  in  verses  that  the  grander  poets 

sing- 
There  had  come  a  guest  unbidden,  .at  the 

opening  of  the  year, 
To  find  a  lodgment  in  our  hearts,  and  the 

tenant's  name  was  fear; 
For  secession's  drawing  mandate  was  a  call 

for  men  and  arms, 
And  each  recurring  eventide  but  brought  us 

fresh  alarms. 

They  had  notified  the  General  that  he  must 

yield  to  fate, 
And  all  the  muniments  of  war  surrender  to  the 

state, 
But  he  sent  from  San  Antonio  an  order  to  the 

sea 
To  convey  on  board  the  steamer  all  the  fort's 

artillery. 

Right  royal  was  his  purpose*  but  the  foe 

divined  his  plan, 
And  the  wily  Texans  set  a  guard  to  intercept 

the  man 
Detailed  to  bear  the  message;    they  placed 

their  watch  with  care 
That  neither  scout  nor  citizen  should  pass  it 

unaware. 

Well,  this  was  rather  awkward,  sir,  as  doubt 
less  you  will  say, 

But  the  Major,  who  was  chief  of  staff,  re 
solved  to  have  his  way 

Despite  the  watchful  provost  guard;  so  he 
asked  his  wife  to  send, 

With  a  box  of  knick-knacks,  a  letter  to  her 
friend ; 


And  the  missive  held  one  sentence  I  remem 
ber  to  this  day: 

"The  thread  is  for  your  neighbor,  Mr.  French, 
across  the  way." 

He  dispatched  a  youthful  courier.  Of  course, 
as  you  will  know, 

The  Texans  searched  him  thoroughly  and 
ordered  him  to  show 

The  contents  of  the  letter.  They  read  it  o'er 
and  o'er, 

But  failed  to  find  the  message  they  had  hin 
dered  once  before. 

So  it  reached  the  English  lady,  and  she  won 
dered  at  the  word, 

But  gave  the  thread  to  Major  French,  ex 
plaining  that  she  heard 

He  wished  a  spool  of  cotton,  and  great  was  his 
surprise 

At  such  a  trifle  sent,  unasked,  through  leagues 
of  hostile  spies. 

"There's  some  hidden  purpose,  doubtless,  in 
the  curious  gift,"  he  said. 

Then  he  tore  away  the  label,  and  inside  the 
spool  of  thread 

WTas  Major  Nichol's  order,  bidding  him  con 
vey  to  sea 

All  the  arms  and  ammunition  from  Fort 
Duncan's  battery. 

"Down  to  Brazon  speed  your  horses,"  thus 
the  Major's  letter  ran, 

"Shift  equipments  and  munitions,  and  em 
bark  them  if  you  can." 

Yes,  the  transfer  was  effected,  for  the  ships 

lay  close  at  hand, 
Ere  the  Texans  guessed  their  purpose,  they 

had  vanished  from  the  land. 
Do  I  know  it  for  a  fact,  sir  ?  'T  is  no  story  that 

I  've  read  — 
I  was  but  a  boy  in  war  time,  and  I  carried  him 

the  thread. 

SOPHIE  E.  EASTMAN. 


On  March  4,  1861,  Abraham  Lincoln  was  in 
augurated  President  of  the  United  States.  In  his 
address  he  stated  that  he  had  no  intention  of  in 
terfering  with  slavery  in  the  states;  but  that  acts 
of  violence  within  any  state  against  the  authority 
of  the  United  States  were  insurrectionary  and 
would  be  repressed.  In  the  Confederate  States 
this  announcement  was  construed  to  mean  war. 


ON   FORT   SUMTER 


403 


GOD    SAVE   OUR   PRESIDENT 

[March  4,  1861] 

ALL  hail!  Unfurl  the  Stripes  and  Stars! 

The  banner  of  the  free ! 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  patriots  greet 

The  shrine  of  Liberty! 
Come,  with  one  heart,  one  hope,  one 
aim, 

An  undivided  band, 
To  elevate,  with  solemn  rites, 

The  ruler  of  our  land ! 

Not  to  invest  a  potentate 

With  robes  of  majesty,  — 
Not  to  confer  a  kingly  crown, 

Nor  bend  a  subject  knee. 
We  bow  beneath  no  sceptred  sway, 

Obey  no  royal  nod :  — 


Columbia's  sons,  erect  and  free, 
Kneel  only  to  their  God! 

Our  ruler  boasts  no  titled  rank, 

No  ancient,  princely  line,  — 
No  regal  right  to  sovereignty, 

Ancestral  and  divine. 
A  patriot,  —  at  his  country's  call, 

Responding  to  her  voice; 
One  of  the  people,  —  he  becomes 

A  sovereign  by  our  choice! 

And  now,  before  the  mighty  pile 

W:e've  reared  to  Liberty, 
He  swears  to  cherish  and  defend 

The  charter  of  the  free! 
God  of  our  country!  seal  his  oath 

With  Thy  supreme  assent. 
God  save  the  Union  of  the  States ! 

God  save  our  President! 

FRANCIS  DEHAES  JANVIER. 


CHAPTER   II 


THE   GAUNTLET 


In  the  fall  of  1860  Major  Robert  Anderson  was 
selected  to  command  the  little  garrison  at  Fort 
Moultrie,  in  Charleston  harbor.  In  spite  of  his 
entreaties,  no  reinforcements  were  sent  him,  and 
on  the  night  of  December  26  he  abandoned  Fort 
Moultrie,  which  his  little  force  was  incapable  of 
defending,  and  moved  to  Fort  Sumter,  where  he 
remained  in  spite  of  the  state's  protests. 

BOB    ANDERSON,    MY   BEAU 

(Miss  Columbia  Sings) 

BOB  ANDERSON,  my  beau,  Bob,  when  we  were 

first  aquent, 
You  were  in  Mex-i-co,  Bob,  because  by  order 

sent; 
But  now  you  are  in  Sumter,  Bob,  because  you 

chose  to  go; 
And  blessings  on  you  anyhow,  Bob  Anderson, 

my  beau! 

Bob  Anderson,  my  beau,  Bob,  I  really  don't 
know  whether 

I  ought  to  like  you  so,  Bob,  considering  that 
feather ; 

I  don't  like  standing  armies,  Bob,  as  very  well 
you  know, 

But  I  lore  a  man  that  dares  to  act,  Bob  Ander 
son,  my  beau. 


Fort  Moultrie  was  seized  by  the  South  Carolina 
troops,  which  were  assembled  in  force  under  com 
mand  of  General  Pierre  T.  Beauregard,  and  it  waa 
decided  to  bombard  Sumter. 


ON  FORT   SUMTER 

IT  was  a  noble  Roman, 

In  Rome's  imperial  day, 
Who  heard  a  coward  croaker 

Before  the  battle  say  — 
'They're  safe  in  such  a  fortress; 

There  is  no  way  to  shake  it"  — 
'On,  on!"  exclaimed  the  hero, 

"I'LL  FIND  A  WAY,  OR  MAKE  IT!" 

Is  FAME  your  aspiration  ? 

Her  path  is  steep  and  high ; 
In  vain  he  seeks  the  temple, 

Content  to  gaze  and  sigh; 
The  crowded  town  is  waiting, 

But  he  alone  can  take  it 
WTho  says,  with  "SOUTHERN  FIRMNESS, 

"I'LL  FIND  A  WAY,  OR  MAKE  IT!" 

Is  GLORY  your  ambition  ? 

There  is  no  royal  road; 
Alike  we  all  must  labor, 

Must  climb  to  her  abode; 


404 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Who  feels  the  thirst  for  glory, 

In  Helicon  may  slake  it, 
If  he  has  but  the  "SOUTHERN  WILL," 

"  To  FIND  A  WAY,  OR  MAKE  IT!" 

Is  Sumter  worth  the  getting? 

It  must  be  bravely  sought; 
With  wishing  and  with  fretting 

The  boon  cannot  be  bought; 
To  all  the  prize  is  open, 

But  only  he  can  take  it 
Who  says,  with  "SOUTHERN  COURAGE," 

"I'LL  FIND  A  WAY,  OR  MAKE  IT!" 

In  all  impassioned  warfare, 

The  tale  has  ever  been, 
That  victory  crowns  the  valiant, 

The  brave  are  they  who  win. 
Though  strong  is  "Sumter  Fortress," 

A  HERO  still  may  take  it, 
Who  says,  with  "SOUTHERN  DARING," 

"I'LL  FIND  A  WAY,  OR  MAKE  IT!" 
Charleston,  S.  C.,  Mercury. 

On  April  11  Beauregard  summoned  Anderson 
to  surrender.  Anderson  promptly  refused,  and  at 
4.30  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  April  12,  1861,  the 
first  gun  against  Sumter  was  fired.  The  fort  an 
swered  promptly,  and  a  terrific  bombardment 
continued  all  day.  The  fort's  ammunition  was 
exhausted  by  the  13th,  and  Major  Anderson 
accepted  the  terms  of  evacuation  offered  by 
General  Beauregard.  On  the  afternoon  of  Sunday, 
April  14,  the  little  garrison  marched  out  of  the 
fort  with  colors  flying  and  drums  beating.  Not  a 
man  had  been  killed  on  either  side. 

SUMTER 

[April  12,  1861) 

CAME  the  morning  of  that  day 
When  the  God  to  whom  we  pray 
Gave  the  soul  of  Henry  Clay 

To  the  land ; 

How  we  loved  him,  living,  dying! 
But  his  birthday  banners  flying 
Saw  us  asking  and  replying 

Hand  to  hand. 

For  we  knew  that  far  away, 
Round  the  fort  in  Charleston  Bay, 
Hung  the  dark  impending  fray, 

Soon  to  fall; 

And  that  Sumter's  brave  defender 
Had  the  summons  to  surrender 
Seventy  loyal  hearts  and  tender  — 

(Those  were  all !) 


And  we  knew  the  April  sun 
Lit  the  length  of  many  a  gun  — 
Hosts  of  batteries  to  the  one 

Island  crag; 

Guns  and  mortars  grimly  frowning, 
Johnson,  Moultrie,  Pinckney,  crowning, 
And  ten  thousand  men  disowning 

The  old  flag. 

Oh,  the  fury  of  the  fight 

Even  then  was  at  its  height! 

Yet  no  breath,  from  noon  till  night, 

Reached  us  here; 
We  had  almost  ceased  to  wonder, 
And  the  day  had  faded  under, 
When  the  echo  of  the  thunder 

Filled  each  ear! 

Then  our  hearts  more  fiercely  beat, 
As  we  crowded  on  the  street, 
Hot  to  gather  and  repeat 

All  the  tale; 

All  the  doubtful  chances  turning. 
Till  our  souls  with  shame  were  burning, 
As  if  twice  our  bitter  yearning 

Could  avail! 

Who  had  fired  the  earliest  gun  ? 
Was  the  fort  by  traitors  won  ? 
Was  there  succor?   What  was  done 

Who  could  know? 

And  once  more  our  thoughts  would  wander 
To  the  gallant,  lone  commander, 
On  his  battered  ramparts  grander 

Than  the  foe. 

Not  too  long  the  brave  shall  wait: 
On  their  own  heads  be  their  fate, 
Who  against  the  hallowed  State 

Dare  begin; 

Flag  defied  and  compact  riven ! 
In  the  record  of  high  Heaven 
How  shall  Southern  men  be  shriven 

For  the  sin! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MORRIS'  ISLAND 

A  CHEERFUL  TRAGEDY 
[April  12,  1861] 


THE  morn  was  cloudy  and  dark  and  gray, 
When  the  first  Columbind  blazed  away, 


SUMTER 


405 


Showing  that  there  was  the  d — 1  to  pay 

With  the  braves  on  Morris'  Island; 
They  fired  their  cannon  again  and  again, 
Hoping  that  Major  Anderson's  men 
Would  answer  back,  but  't  was  all  in  vain 

At  first,  on  Morris'  Island: 
Hokee  pokee,  winkee  wum, 
Shattering  shot  and  thundering  bomb, 
Fiddle  and  fife  and  rattling  drum, 
At  the  battle  of  Morris'  Island ! 


At  length,  as  rose  the  morning  sun, 
Fort  Sumter  fired  a  single  gun, 
Which  made  the  chivalry  want  to  run 

Away  from  Morris'  Island; 
But  they  had  made  so  much  of  a  boast 
Of  their  fancy  batteries  on  the  coast, 
That  each  felt  bound  to  stick  to  his  post 

Down  there  on  Morris'  Island. 

in 

Then  there  was  firing  in  hot  haste; 
The  chivalry  stripped  them  to  the  waist, 
And,  brave  as  lions,  they  sternly  faced 

—  Their  grog,  on  Morris'  Island ! 
The  spirit  of  Seventy-six  raged  high, 
The  cannons  roared  and  the  men  grew  dry  — 
'T  was  marvellous  like  the  Fourth  of  July, 

That  fight  on  Morris'  Island. 


All  day  they  fought,  till  the  night  came  down ; 
It  rained;  the  fellows  were  tired  and  blown, 
And  they  wished  they  were  safely  back  to 
town, 

Away  from  Morris'  Island. 
One  can't  expect  the  bravest  men 
To  shoot  their  cannons  off  in  the  rain, 
So  all  grew  peaceful  and  still  again, 

At  the  works  on  Morris'  Island. 


But  after  the  heroes  all  had  slept, 
To  his  gun  each  warrior  swiftly  leapt, 
Brisk,  as  the  numerous  fleas  that  crept 

In  the  sand  on  Morris'  Island; 
And  all  that  day  they  fired  their  shot, 
Heated  in  furnaces,  piping  hot, 
Hoping  to  send  Fort  Sumter  to  pot 

And  glory  to  Morris'  Island. 


Finally,  wearying  of  the  joke, 

Starved  with  hunger  and  blind  with  smoke 


From  blazing  barracks  of  pine  and  oak, 

Set  fire  from  Morris'  Island, 
The  gallant  Anderson  struck  his  flag 
And  packed  his  things  in  a  carpet-bag, 
While  cheers  from  bobtail,  rag,  and  tag, 
Arose  on  Morris'  Island. 


Then  came  the  comforting  piece  of  fun 
Of  counting  the  noses  one  by  one, 
To  see  if  anything  had  been  done 

On  glorious  Morris'  Island : 
"Nobody  hurt!"   the  cry  arose; 
There  was  not  missing  a  single  nose, 
And  this  was  the  sadly  ludicrous  close 

Of  the  battle  of  Morris'  Island. 


But,  gentle  gunners,  just  wait  and  see 
What  sort  of  a  battle  there  yet  will  be; 
You'll  hardly  escape  so  easily, 

Next  time  on  Morris'  Island ! 
There's  a  man  in  Washington  with  a  will. 
Who  won't  mind  shooting  a  little  "to  kill," 
If  it  proves  that  We  Have  a  Government  Still, 

Even  on  Morris'  Island ! 
Hokee  pokee,  winkee  wum, 
Shattering  shot  and  thundering  bomb, 
Look  out  for  the  battle  that 's  yet  to  come 

Down  there  on  Morris'  Island ! 


Anderson's  total  force  numbered-one  hundred 
and  twenty-eight.  The  South  Carolina  army  op 
posed  to  him  numbered  about  six  thousand,  and 
was  made  up  largely  of  the  best  blood  of  the  state. 
Planters  and  their  sons,  men  of  wealth  and  family, 
did  not  scruple  to  serve  in  the  ranks.  Their  sweet 
hearts  and  wives  turned  out  in  gala  attire  to  witness 
their  triumph,  and  when  the  fort  surrendered, 
Charleston  gave  itself  up  to  joy. 


SUMTER  — A  BALLAD  OF  1861 

'T  WAS  on  the  twelfth  of  April, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
We  heard  the  guns  of  Moultrie 

Give  signal  for  the  fray. 

Anon  across  the  waters 

There  boomed  the  answering  gun, 
From  north  and  south  came  flash  on  flash; 

The  battle  had  begun. 

The  mortars  belched  their  deadly  food 
And  spiteful  whizz 'd  the  balls, 


4o6 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  fearful  storm  of  iron  hailed 
On  Sumter's  doomed  walls. 

We  watched  the  meteor  flight  of  shell, 
And  saw  the  lightning  flash  — 

Saw  where  each  fiery  missile  fell, 
And  heard  the  sullen  crash. 

The  morn  was  dark  and  cloudy 

Yet  till  the  sun  arose, 
No  answer  to  our  gallant  boys 

Came  booming  from  our  foes. 

Then  through  the  dark  and  murky  clouds 

The  morning  sunlight  came, 
And  forth  from  Sumter's  frowning  walls 

Burst  sudden  sheets  of  flame. 

Then  shot  and  shell  flew  thick  and  fast, 

The  war-dogs  howling  spoke, 
And  thundering  came  their  angry  roar, 

Through  wreathing  clouds  of  smoke. 

Again  to  fight  for  liberty 

Our  gallant  sons  had  come, 
They  smiled  when  came  the  bugle  call, 

And  laughed  when  tapped  the  drum. 

From  cotton  and  from  corn  field, 

From  desk  and  forum,  too, 
From  work  bench  and  from  anvil  came 

Our  gallant  boys  and  true! 

A  hireling  band  had  come  to  awe, 

Our  chains  to  rivet  fast; 
Yon  lofty  pile  scowls  on  our  homes 

Seaward  the  hostile  mast. 

But  gallant  freemen  man  our  guns,  — 

No  mercenary  host, 
Who  barter  for  their  honor's  price, 

And  of  their  baseness  boast. 

Now  came  our  stately  matrons, 

And  maidens,  too,  by  scores; 
Oh!   Carolina's  beauty  shone 

Like  love-lights  on  her  shores. 

See  yonder,  anxious  gazing, 

Alone  a  matron  stands, 
The  tear-drop  glistening  on  each  lid, 

And  tightly  clasped  her  hands. 

For  there,  exposed  to  deadly  fire, 
Her  husband  and  her  son  — 


"Father,"  she  spoke,  and  heavenward  look'd, 
"Father,  thy  will  be  done." 

See  yonder  group  of  maidens, 

No  joyous  laughter  now, 
For  cares  lie  heavy  on  each  heart 

And  cloud  each  anxious  brow; 

For  brothers  dear  and  lovers  fond 

Are  there  amid  the  strife; 
Tearful  the  sister's  anxious  gaze  — 

Pallid  the  promised  wife. 

Yet  breathed  no  heart  one  thought  of  fear, 

Prompt  at  their  country's  call, 
They  yielded  forth  their  dearest  hopes, 

And  gave  to  honor  all! 

Now  comes  a  message  from  below  — 

Oh !   quick  the  tidings  tell  — 
"At  Moultrie  and  Fort  Johnson,  too, 

And  Morris',  all  are  well!" 

Then  mark  the  joyous  bright'ning; 

See  how  each  bosom  swells; 
That  friends  and  loved  ones  all  are  safe, 

Each  to  the  other  tells. 

All  day  the  shot  flew  thick  and  fast, 

All  night  the  cannon  roared, 
While  wreathed  in  smoke  stern  Sumter  stood 

And  vengeful  answer  poured. 

Again  the  sun  rose,  bright  and  clear, 

'T  was  on  the  thirteenth  day, 
While,  lo!   at  prudent  distance  moored, 

Five  hostile  vessels  lay. 

With  choicest  Abolition  crews,  — 

The  bravest  of  their  brave,  — 
They'd  come  to  pull  our  Crescent  down 

And  dig  Secession's  grave. 

"See,  see,  how  Sumter's  banner  trails, 

They're  signalling  for  aid. 
See  you  no  boats  of  armed  men  ? 

Is  yet  no  movement  made  ? " 

Now  densest  smoke  and  lurid  flames 

Burst  out  o'er  Sumter's  walls; 
"The  fort's  on  fire,"  is  the  cry, 

Again  for  aid  he  calls. 

See  you  no  boats  or  vessels  yet  ? 
Dare  they  not  risk  one  shot; 


THE   FIGHT  AT   SUMTER 


407 


To  make  report  grandiloquent 
Of  aid  they  rendered  not  ? 

Nor  boat,  nor  vessel,  leaves  the  fleet, 

"Let  the  old  Major  burn, 
We'll  boast  of  what  we  would  have  done, 

If  but  —  on  our  return." 

Go  back,  go  back,  ye  cravens; 

Go  back  the  way  ye  came; 
Ye  gallant,  would-be  men-of-war, 

Go!  to  your  country's  shame. 

'Mid  fiery  storm  of  shot  and  shell, 
'Mid  smoke  and  roaring  flame, 

See  how  Kentucky's  gallant  son 
Does  honor  to  her  name! 

See  how  he  answers  gun  for  gun  — 

Hurrah !   his  flag  is  down ! 
The  white!  the  white!  Oh  see  it  wave! 

Is  echoed  all  around. 

God  save  the  gallant  Anderson, 

All  honor  to  his  name, 
A  soldier's  duty  nobly  done, 

He's  earned  a  hero's  fame. 

Now  ring  the  bells  a  joyous  peal, 
And  rend  with  shouts  the  air, 

We've  torn  the  hated  banner  down, 
And  placed  the  Crescent  there. 

All  honor  to  our  gallant  boys, 

Bring  forth  the  roll  of  fame, 
And  there  in  glowing  lines  inscribe 

Each  patriot  hero's  name. 

Spread,  spread  the  tidings  far  and  wide, 

Ye  winds  take  up  the  cry, 
"  Our  soil 's  redeemed  from  hateful  yoke, 

We'll  keep  it  pure  or  die." 
Columbia,  B.C.,  Banner. 

Very  different  was  the  reception  of  the  news  at 
the  North.  At  last  war  had  begun.  The  time  for 
argument  and  compromise  and  entreaty  was  past. 
The  time  for  action  was  at  hand. 

THE  FIGHT  AT  SUMTER 

'T  WAS  a  wonderful  brave  fight ! 
Through  the  day  and  all  night, 
March!  Halt!  Left!  Right! 
So  they  formed : 


And  one  thousand  to  ten, 

The  bold  Palmetto  men 

Sumter  stormed. 

The  smoke  in  a  cloud 
Closed  her  in  like  a  shroud, 
While  the  cannon  roared  aloud 

From  the  Port; 
And  the  red  cannon-balls 
Ploughed  the  gray  granite  walls 

Of  the  Fort. 

Sumter's  gunners  at  their  places, 

With  their  gunpowdered  faces, 

Shook  their  shoulders  from  their  braces, 

And  stripped 

Stark  and  white  to  the  waist, 
Just  to  give  the  foe  a  taste, 

And  be  whipped. 

In  the  town,  through  every  street, 
Tramp,  tramp,  went  the  feet, 
For  they  said  the  Federal  fleet 

Hove  in  sight; 

And  down  the  wharves  they  ran, 
Every  woman,  child,  and  man, 

To  the  fight. 

On  the  fort  the  old  flag  waved, 
And  the  barking  batteries  braved, 
While  the  bold  seven  thousand  raved 

As  they  fought; 

For  each  blinding  sheet  of  flame 
From  her  cannon  thundered  shame !  — 

So  they  thought. 

And  strange  enough  to  tell, 
Though  the  gunners  fired  well, 
And  the  balls  ploughed  red  as  hell 

Through  the  dirt; 

Though  the  shells  burst  and  scattered, 
And  the  fortress  walls  were  shattered,  — 

None  were  hurt. 

But  the  fort  —  so  hot  she  grew, 
As  the  cannon-balls  flew. 
That  each  man  began  to  stew 

At  his  gun; 

They  were  not  afraid  to  die, 
But  this  making  Patriot  pie 

Was  not  fun. 

So,  to  make  the  story  short, 
The  traitors  got  the  fort 
After  thirty  hours'  sport 
With  the  balls; 


4o8 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  the  victory  is  not  theirs, 
Though  their  brazen  banner  flares 
From  the  walls. 

It  were  better  they  should  dare 
The  lion  in  his  lair, 
Or  defy  the  grizzly  bear 

In  his  den, 

Than  to  wake  the  fearful  cry 
That  is  rising  up  on  high 

From  our  men. 

To  our  banner  we  are  clinging, 
And  a  song  we  are  singing, 
Whose  chorus  is  ringing 

From  each  mouth; 
'Tis  "The  old  Constitution 
And  a  stern  retribution 

To  the  South." 
Vanity  Fair,  April  27,  1861. 


SUMTER 

So,  they  will  have  it! 

The  Black  Witch  (curse  on  her) 

Always  had  won  her 
Greediest  demand  —  for  we  gave  it  — 

All  but  our  honor! 

Thirty  hours  thundered 

Siege-guns  and  mortars  — 

(Flames  in  the  quarters!) 
One  to  a  hundred 

Stood  our  brave  Fortersl 

No  more  of  parties !  — 
Let  them  all  moulder  — 
Here's  work  that's  bolder! 

Forward,  my  hearties! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder. 

Sight  o'er  the  trunnion  — 

Send  home  the  rammer  — 

Linstock  and  hammer! 
Speak  for  the  Union! 

Tones  that  won't  stammer! 

Men  of  Columbia, 

Leal  hearts  from  Annan, 

Brave  lads  of  Shannon! 
We  are  all  one  to-day  — 

On  with  the  cannon! 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


Nor  was  there  any  hesitation  as  to  what  that 
action  should  be.  On  Monday,  April  15,  1861, 
President  Lincoln  issued  a  call  for  seventy-five 
thousand  militia  to  suppress  combinations  ob 
structing  the  execution  of  the  laws  in  seven  of 
the  Southern  states. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND 

SUGGESTED    BY    THE    PRESIDENT'S    CALL    FOB 
VOLUNTEERS 


TOLL!   Roland,  toll! 

—  High  in  St.  Bavon's  tower, 
At  midnight  hour, 

The  great  bell  Roland  spoke, 
And  all  who  slept  in  Ghent  awoke. 

—  What  meant  its  iron  stroke  ? 
Why  caught  each  man  his  blade  ? 
Why  the  hot  haste  he  made? 
Why  echoed  every  street 

With  tramp  of  thronging  feet  — 
All  flying  to  the  city's  wall  ? 
It  was  the  call 
Known  well  to  all, 
That   Freedom   stood    in    peril  of   some 

foe: 
And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold 

Whenever  Roland  tolled, 
And  every  hand  a  sword  could  hold ;  — 
For  men 

Were  patriots  then, 
Three  hundred  years  ago! 


Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 
Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  true  and  brave  a  tongue! 
—  If  men  be  patriots  still, 
At  thy  first  sound 
True  hearts  will  bound, 
Great  souls  will  thrill  — 
Then  toll!   and  wake  the  test 

In  each  man's  breast, 
And  let  him  stand  confess'd! 


Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
—  Not  in  St.  Bavon's  tower 

At  midnight  hour,  — 
Nor  by  the  Scheldt,  nor  far-off  Zuyder 
Zee; 


OUT  AND   FIGHT 


409 


But  here  —  this  side  the  sea !  — 
And  here  in  broad,  bright  day! 

Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
For  not  by  night  awaits 
A  brave  foe  at  the  gates, 
But   Treason  stalks  abroad  —  inside !  —  at 

noon! 

Toll!  Thy  alarm  is  not  too  soon! 
To    arms!     Ring    out    the    Leader's 

call! 

Reecho  it  from  East  to  West, 
Till  every  dauntless  breast 
Swell  beneath  plume  and  crest! 

Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap! 

Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
—  What  tears  can  widows  weep 
Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall? 

Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
Till  cottager  from  cottage-wall 
Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun  — 
The  heritage  of  sire  to  son, 
Ere  half  of  Freedom's  work  was  done! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  son,  in  memory  of  his  sire, 

Once  more  shall  load  and  fire! 

Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
Till  volunteers  find  out  the  art 
Of  aiming  at  a  traitor's  heart ! 


IV 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
—  St.  Bavon's  stately  tower 

Stands  to  this  hour,  — 
And   by  its   side   stands  Freedom  yet  in 

Ghent; 

For  when  the  bells  now  ring, 
Men  shout,  "God  save  the  King!" 

Until  the  air  is  rent ! 
—  Amen !  —  So  let  it  be ; 
For  a  true  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free. 
Toll!   Roland,  toll! 
This  side  the  sea! 
No  longer  they,  but  we, 
Have  now  such  need  of  thee! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
And  let  thy  iron  throat 
Ring  out  its  warning  note, 
Till  Freedom's  perils  be  outbraved, 
And  Freedom's  flag,  wherever  waved, 
Shall  overshadow  none  enslaved ! 
Toll!   till  from  either  ocean's  strand, 
Brave  men  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 


And  shout,  "God  save  our  native  land!" 
—  And  love  the  land  which  God  hath  saved '. 
Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

THEODORE  TILTON. 

Independent,  April  18,  1861. 

MEN  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  WEST1 

MEN  of  the  North  and  West, 

Wake  in  your  might, 
Prepare,  as  the  rebels  have  done, 

For  the  fight! 

You  cannot  shrink  from  the  test; 
Rise!  Men  of  the  North  and  West! 

They  have  torn  down  your  banner  of  stars; 

They  have  trampled  the  laws; 
They  have  stifled  the  freedom  they  hate, 

For  no  cause! 

Do  you  love  it  or  slavery  best  ? 
Speak !  Men  of  the  North  and  West. 

They  strike  at  the  life  of  the  State: 

Shall  the  murder  be  done  ? 
They  cry:   "We  are  two!"  And  you: 

"  We  are  one ! " 

You  must  meet  them,  then,  breast  to  breast; 
On!  Men  of  the  North  and  West! 

Not  with  words;  they  laugh  them  to  scorn, 

And  tears  they  despise; 
But  with  swords  in  your  hands  and  death 

In  your  eyes! 

Strike  home!  leave  to  God  all  the  rest; 
Strike!  Men  of  the  North  and  West. 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


OUT  AND  FIGHT 

OUT  and  fight!  The  clouds  are  breaking, 

Far  and  wide  the  red  light  streams, 
North  and  west  see  millions  waking 

From  their  night-mare,  doubting  dreams. 
War  is  coming.  As  the  thunder 

'Mid  the  mountain  caverns  rolls, 
Driving  rains  in  torrents  under, 

So  the  wild  roar  wakes  our  souls. 

Out  and  fight!  The  time  is  over 
For  all  truce  and  compromise, 

1  From  Poetical  Writings  of  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard;  copyright,  1880,  by  Charles  «Scribner'3 
Sons. 


4io 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Words  of  calm  are  words  of  folly, 
Peaceful  dreams  are  painted  lies; 

Sumter's  flames  in  Southern  waters 
Are  the  first  wild  beacon  light, 

And  on  Northern  hills  reflected 
Give  the  signal  for  the  fight. 

Out  and  fight !   Endure  no  longer 

Goading  insult,  brazen  guilt; 
Be  the  battle  to  the  knife  blade. 

And  the  knife  blade  to  the  hilt, 
Till  the  sacred  zone  of  Freedom 

Girds  the  whole  Atlantic  strand, 
And  the  braggart  and  the  Gascon 

Be  extinguished  from  the  land. 

CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

Vanity  Fair,  April  27,  1861. 

NO  MORE  WORDS 

No  more  words; 
Try  it  with  your  swords! 
Try  it  with  the  arms  of  your  bravest  and  your 

best! 

You  are  proud  of  your  manhood,  now  put  it  to 
the  test; 

Not  another  word ; 
Try  it  by  the  sword ! 

No  more  notes; 
Try  it  by  the  throats 
Of  the  cannon  that  will  roar  till  the  earth  and 

air  be  shaken; 

For  they  speak  what  they  mean,  and  they  can 
not  be  mistaken; 
No  more  doubt; 
Come  —  fight  it  out! 

No  child's  play! 

Waste  not  a  day; 
Serve  out  the  deadliest  weapons  that  you 

know; 
Let  them  pitilessly  hail  on  the  faces  of  the  foe; 

No  blind  strife; 

Wraste  not  one  life. 

You  that  in  the  front 
Bear  the  battle's  brunt  — 
When  the  sun  gleams  at  dawn  on  the  bayonets 

abreast, 

Remember  't  is  for  government  and  country 
you  contest; 

For  love  of  all  you  guard, 
Stand,  and  strike  hard! 


You  at  home  that  stay 

From  danger  far  away, 

Leave  not  a  jot  to  chance,  while  you  rest  in 

quiet  ease; 

Quick!  forge  the  bolts  of  death;  quick!  ship 
them  o'er  the  seas; 

If  War's  feet  are  lame, 
Yours  will  be  the  blame. 

You,  my  lads,  abroad, 
"Steady!"   be  your  word; 
You,  at  home,  be  the  anchor  of  your  sol 
diers  young  and  brave; 
Spare  no  cost,  none  is  lost,  that  may  strengthen 
or  may  save; 

Sloth  were  sin  and  shame, 
Now  play  out  the  game! 

FRANKLIN  LUSHINGTON. 


"At  the  darkest  hour  in  the  history  of  the  re 
public,"  Emerson  wrote,  "when  it  looked  as  if  the 
nation  would  be  dismembered,  pulverized  into  its 
original  elements,  the  attack  on  Fort  Sumter  crys 
tallized  the  North  into  a  unit,  and  the  hope  of 
mankind  was  saved." 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL 

LAY  down  the  axe;   fling  by  the  spade; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls;  away!  away! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green. 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,  from  a  thousand  coverts  —  see, 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 


A   CRY  TO   ARMS 


411 


And  ye,  who  breast  the  mountain-storm 

By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 
Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 

A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 
Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 

The  whirlwind,  stand  in  her  defence; 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 

And  ye,  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land, 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  borne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn. 

And  ye,  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long-murmuring  marge  of  sand  — 
Come  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck,  against  the  shore! 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell, 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
Strike,  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be! 

WlLLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


The  people  of  the  South  were  also  wildly  enthu 
siastic  for  the  war.  Prompted  by  the  belief  that 
they  must  arm  to  defend  their  property  and  their 
liberties,  they  rose  as  one  man.  All  hearts  were 
in  the  cause. 

DIXIE 

SOUTHRONS,  hear  your  country  call  you ! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you! 

To  arms !   To  arms !   To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted,  — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united! 
To  arms!  To  arms!  To  arms,  in  Dixie! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie! 

Hurrah !   hurrah ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  and  die  for  Dixie! 


To  arms !  To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

To  arms !  To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance! 

Fear  no  danger !   Shun  no  labor ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder! 

How  the  South 's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannons'  ringing  voices! 
For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles'. 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder! 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed! 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation 
Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station! 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness,  — 

To  arms ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  vanish  sorrow; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 
To  arms!  To  arms!  To  arms,  in  Dixie! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie! 

Hurrah !   hurrah ! 

For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand. 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie! 

To  arms !  To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

To  arms!  To  arms! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

ALBERT  PIKE 

A  CRY  TO  ARMS 

Ho,  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side! 
Ho,  dwellers  in  the  vales! 


412 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ho,  ye  who  by  the  chafing  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade; 
Let  desk  and  case  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade! 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands; 

And  till  he  flies  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands, 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears! 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain. 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain ! 

Come  with  the  weapons  at  your  call  — 

With  musket,  pike,  or  knife; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  unbought  blows 

W7ith  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn. 

Does  any  falter?  Let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh,  could  you  like  your  women  feel, 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch ! 

What  hope,  O  God !  would  not  grow  warm 

When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer? 
The  lily  calmly  braves  the  storm, 

And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear? 
No!  rather  let  its  branches  court 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain; 
And  from  the  lily's  regal  port 

Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain. 


Ho,  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side ! 

Ho,  dwellers  in  the  vales! 
Ho,  ye  who  by  the  roaring  tide 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales! 
Come,  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake; 
We  battle  for  our  country's  right, 

And  for  the  lily's  sake! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


"WE  CONQUER  OR  DIE  ' 

THE  war  drum  is  beating,  prepare  for  the  fight. 
The  stern  bigot  Northman  exults  in  his  might; 
Gird  on  your  bright  weapons,  your  foemen 

are  nigh, 
And  this  be  our  watchword,  "We  conquer  or 

die." 

The  trumpet  is  sounding  from  mountain  to 

shore. 
Your  swords  and  your  lances  must  slumber 

no  more. 
Fling  forth  to  the  sunlight  your  banner  on 

high, 
Inscribed  with  the  watchword,  "  We  conquer 

or  die." 

March  on  the  battlefield,  there  to  do  or  dare, 
With  shoulder  to  shoulder,  all  danger  to  share, 
And  let  your  proud  watchword  ring  up  to  the 

sky. 
Till  the  blue  arch  reechoes,  "  We  conquer  or 

die." 

Press  forward  undaunted  nor  think  of  retreat. 
The  enemy's  host  on  the  threshold  to  meet; 
Strike  firm,  till  the  foeman  before  you  shall  fly. 
Appalled  by  the  watchword,  "We  conquer  or 
die." 

Go  forth  in  the  pathway  our  forefathers  trod ; 
We,  too,  fight  for  freedom  —  our  Captain  is 

God, 
Their  blood  in  our  veins,  with  their  honors  we 

vie, 
Theirs,  too,  was  the  watchword,  "We  conquer 

or  die." 

We  strike  for  the  South  —  Mountain,  Valley, 

and  Plain, 
For  the  South  we  will  conquer  again  and 

again ; 

Her  day  of  salvation  and  triumph  is  nigh, 
Ours,  then,  be  the  watchword,  "WTe  conquer 

or  die." 

JAMES  PIERPONT. 


"CALL  ALL" 

WHOOP  !  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose. 
Roaring  round  like  the  very  deuce! 
Lice  of  Egypt,  a  hungry  pack,  — 
After  'em,  boys,  and  drive  'em  back. 


I  GIVE  MY  SOLDIER   BOY  A  BLADE 


Bull-dog,  terrier,  cur,  and  fice, 
Back  to  the  beggarly  land  of  ice; 
Worry  'em,  bite  'em,  scratch  and  tear 
Everybody  and  everywhere. 

Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under, 
Tennessee  is  split  asunder, 
Alabama  awaits  attack, 
And  Georgia  bristles  up  her  back. 

Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone! 
Still  his  spirit  is  marching  on,  — 
Lantern-jawed,  and  legs,  my  boys, 
Long  as  an  ape's  from  Illinois ! 

Want  a  weapon  ?  Gather  a  brick, 
Club  or  cudgel,  or  stone  or  stick; 
Anything  with  a  blade  or  butt, 
Anything  that  can  cleave  or  cut. 

Anything  heavy,  or  hard,  or  keen! 
Any  sort  of  slaying  machine! 
Anything  with  a  willing  mind. 
And  the  steady  arm  of  a  man  behind. 

Want  a  weapon  ?  Why,  capture  one ! 
Every  Doodle  has  got  a  gun. 
Belt,  and  bayonet,  bright  and  new; 
Kill  a  Doodle,  and  capture  two! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  son  and  sire! 
All,  call  all!   to  the  feast  of  fire! 
Mother  and  maiden,  and  child  and  slave, 
A  common  triumph  or  a  single  grave. 
Rockingham,  Va.,  Register,  1861. 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG 

COME,  brothers!  rally  for  the  right! 

The  bravest  of  the  brave 
Sends  forth  her  ringing  battle-cry 

Beside  the  Atlantic  wave! 
She  leads  the  way  in  honor's  path; 

Come,  brothers,  near  and  far. 
Come  rally  round  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star! 

We've  borne  the  Yankee  trickery, 

The  Yankee  gibe  and  sneer, 
Till  Yankee  insolence  and  pride 

Know  neither  shame  nor  fear; 
But  ready  now  with  shot  and  steel 

Their  brazen  front  to  mar, 
\Ve  hoist  aloft  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star. 


Now  Georgia  marches  to  the  front, 

And  close  beside  her  come 
Her  sisters  by  the  Mexique  Sea, 

With  pealing  trump  and  drum; 
Till  answering  back  from  hill  and  glen 

The  rallying  cry  afar, 
A  Nation  hoists  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star. 

By  every  stone  in  Charleston  Bay, 

By  each  beleaguered  town, 
We  swear  to  rest  not,  night  nor  day, 

But  hunt  the  tyrants  down ! 
Till  bathed  in  valor's  holy  blood 

The  gazing  world  afar 
Shall  greet  with  shouts  the  Bonnie  Blue 
Flag 

That  bears  the  cross  and  star! 

ANNIE  CHAMBERS  KETCHUM. 

The  Southern  women  were  carried  away  by 
enthusiasm  and  excitement.  They  believed  the 
South  invincible,  and  regarded  the  men  who  did 
not  rush  to  enlist  as  cowards  and  traitors. 

"I  GIVE  MY  SOLDIER  BOY  A 
BLADE  !" 

I  GIVE  my  soldier  boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashioned  well: 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  swayed, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not;   but  I  hope  to  know, 

That,  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade. 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low  — 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  the  blade! 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear  —  the  lucid  flood 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done ;  — 
As  calm,  as  clear,  in  wind  and  wood, 

Be  thou  where'er  it  sees  the  sun! 
For  country's  claim  at  honor's  call, 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 
At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall  — 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  the  blade! 

The  eye  which  marked  its  peerless  edge, 

The    hand    that    weighed    its    balanced 

poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone  with  all  their  flame  and  noise; 
Yet  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains! 

So,  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heartfelt  strains, 

1  give  my  soldier  boy  the  blade! 


414 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CHAPTER   III 


THE   NORTH   GETS    ITS    LESSON 


On  Wednesday,  April  16, 1861,  the  Sixth  Massa 
chusetts  left  Boston  for  Washington.  Three  days 
later  it  reached  Baltimore,  and  started  to  march 
to  the  Camden  Street  station  to  take  train  for  its 
destination. 

THE  NINETEENTH  OF  APRIL 

[1861] 

THIS  year,  till  late  in  April,  the  snow  fell  thick 

and  light: 
Thy  truce-flag,  friendly  Nature,  in  clinging 

drifts  of  white, 
Hung  over  field  and  city :  now  everywhere  is 

seen, 
In  place  of  that  white  quietness,  a  sudden 

glow  of  green. 

The  verdure  climbs  the  Common,  beneath  the 

leafless  trees, 
To  where  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  are 

floating  on  the  breeze. 
There,  suddenly  as  spring  awoke  from  winter's 

snow-draped  gloom, 
The  Passion-Flower  of  Seventy-Six  is  bursting 

into  bloom. 

Dear  is  the  time  of  roses,  when  earth  to  joy  is 
wed, 

And  garden-plat  and  meadow  wear  one  gener 
ous  flush  of  red ; 

But  now  in  dearer  beauty,  to  her  ancient 
colors  true, 

Blooms  the  old  town  of  Boston  in  red  and 
white  and  blue. 

Along  the  whole  awakening  North  are  those 
bright  emblems  spread; 

A  summer  noon  of  patriotism  is  burning  over 
head: 

No  party  badges  flaunting  now,  no  word  of 
clique  or  clan ; 

But  "  Up  for  God  and  Union ! "  is  the  shout  of 
every  man. 

Oh,  peace  is  dear  to  Northern  hearts;  our 
hard-earned  homes  more  dear; 

But  Freedom  is  beyond  the  price  of  any 
earthly  cheer; 


And  Freedom's  flag  is  sacred;  he  who  would 

work  it  harm, 
Let  him,   although  a  brother,   beware  our 

strong  right  arm! 

A  brother!   ah,  the  sorrow,  the  anguish  of 

that  word ! 
The  fratricidal  strife  begun,  when  will  its  end 

be  heard  ? 
Not  this  the  boon  that  patriot  hearts  have 

prayed  and  waited  for;  — 
We  loved  them,  and  we  longed  for  peace :  but 

they  would  have  it  war. 

Yes;  war!  on  this  memorial  day,  the  day  of 

Lexington, 
A  lightning-thrill  along  the  wires  from  heart 

to  heart  has  run. 
Brave   men  we  gazed  on  yesterday,  to-day 

for  us  have  bled: 
Again  is  Massachusetts  blood  the  first  for 

Freedom  shed. 

To  war,  —  and  with  our  brethren,  then,  — 

if  only  this  can  be! 
Life  hangs  as  nothing  in  the  scale  against 

dear  Liberty! 
Though  hearts  be  torn  asunder,  for  Freedom 

we  will  fight: 
Our  blood  may  seal  the  victory,  but  God  will 

shield  the  Right! 

LUCY  LARCOM. 

Baltimore  was  in  a  frenzy,  the  streets  were 
crowded  with  Southern  sympathizers,  and  an 
attack  upon  the  troops  soon  began.  A  desperate 
fight  followed,  in  which  three  soldiers  were  killed 
and  about  twenty  wounded.  Nine  citizens  of 
Baltimore  were  killed,  and  many  wounded  —  how 
many  is  not  known. 

THROUGH  BALTIMORE 

[April  19,  1861) 

T  WAS  Friday  morn :  the  train  drew  near 

The  city  and  the  shore. 
Far  through  the  sunshine,  soft  and  clear, 
We  saw  the  dear  old  flag  appear, 
And  in  our  hearts  arose  a  cheer 

For  Baltimore. 


MY  MARYLAND 


Across  the  broad  Patapsco's  wave, 

Old  Fort  McHenry  bore 
The  starry  banner  of  the  brave, 
As  when  our  fathers  went  to  save, 
Or  in  the  trenches  find  a  grave 

At  Baltimore. 

Before  us,  pillared  in  the  sky, 

We  saw  the  statue  soar 
Of  Washington,  serene  and  high :  — 
Could  traitors  view  that  form,  nor  fly  ? 
Could  patriots  see,  nor  gladly  die 

For  Baltimore? 

"  O  city  of  our  country's  song ! 

By  that  swift  aid  we  bore 
When  sorely  pressed,  receive  the  throng 
Wrho  go  to  shield  our  flag  from  wrong. 
And  give  us  welcome,  warm  and  strong, 

In  Baltimore!" 

W7e  had  no  arms;  as  friends  we  came. 

As  brothers  evermore. 
To  rally  round  one  sacred  name  — 
The  charter  of  our  power  and  fame: 
We  never  dreamed  of  guilt  and  shame 

In  Baltimore. 

The  coward  mob  upon  us  fell: 

McHenry's  flag  they  tore: 
Surprised,  borne  backward  by  the  swell, 
Beat  down  with  mad,  inhuman  yell, 
Before  us  yawned  a  traitorous  hell 

In  Baltimore! 

The  streets  our  soldier-fathers  trod 

Blushed  with  their  children's  gore; 
We  saw  the  craven  rulers  nod, 
And  dip  in  blood  the  civic  rod  — 
Shall  such  things  be,  O  righteous  God, 
In  Baltimore? 

No,  never!   By  that  outrage  black, 

A  solemn  oath  we  swore, 
To  bring  the  Keystone's  thousands  back, 
Strike  down  the  dastards  who  attack, 
And  leave  a  red  and  fiery  track 

Through  Baltimore! 

Bow  down,  in  haste,  thy  guilty  head! 

God's  wrath  is  swift  and  sore: 
The  sky  with  gathering  bolts  is  red,  — 
Cleanse  from  thy  skirts  the  slaughter  shed, 
Or  make  thyself  an  ashen  bed, 

O  Baltimore! 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


The  secessionists  of  Maryland  were  wild  with 
wrath;  but  a  Federal  force  under  General  Butler 
soon  occupied  Annapolis  and  Baltimore,  the 
Union  spirit  of  the  state  asserted  itself,  and  there 
was  never  any  further  danger  of  its  joining  the 
Confederacy. 


MY  MARYLAND 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel. 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May; 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain ; 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
'Sic  semper  /"  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


416 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes !  She  burns !  She  'JI  come !  She  'II 
come! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL. 


On  May  24,  1861,  a  Union  force  under  Colonel 
Ephraim  E.  Ellsworth  occupied  Alexandria,  Va. 
Over  an  inn  called  the  Marshall  House  Ellsworth 
saw  a  Confederate  flag  flying  and  went  in  person 
to  take  it  down.  As  he  descended  the  stairs  with 
the  flag  in  his  arms,  the  proprietor  of  the  inn,  a 
violent  secessionist  named  Jackson,  fired  upon  and 
killed  him  instantly.  Jackson  was  shot  a  moment 
later  by  Francis  E.  Brownell,  a  New  York  Zouave. 

ELLSWORTH 

[May  24.  1861] 

WHO  is  this  ye  say  is  slain  ? 
Whose  voice  answers  not  again  ? 
Ellsworth,  shall  we  call  in  vain 
On  thy  name  to-day? 


No !  from  every  vale  and  hill 
Our  response  all  hearts  shall  thrill, 
"Ellsworth's  fame  is  with  us  still, 
Ne'er  to  pass  away!" 

»ring  that  rebel  banner  low, 

Hoisted  by  a  treacherous  foe: 

'T  was  for  that  they  dealt  the  blow. 

Laid  him  in  the  dust. 
Raise  aloft,  that  all  may  see 
His  loved  flag  of  Liberty. 
Forward,  then,  to  victory, 

Or  perish  if  we  must! 

Hark  to  what  Columbia  saith : 
"Mourn  not  for  his  early  death, 
With  each  patriot's  dying  breath 

Strength  renewed  is  given 
To  the  cause  of  truth  and  right, 
To  the  land  for  which  they  fight. 
After  darkness  cometh  light,  — 

Such  the  law  of  Heaven." 

So  we  name  him  not  in  vain, 
Though  he  comes  not  back  again ! 
For  his  country  he  was  slain; 

Ellsworth's  blood  shall  rise 
To  our  gracious  Saviour  —  King: 
'T  is  a  holy  gift  we  bring ; 
Such  a  sacred  offering 

God  will  not  despise. 


COLONEL  ELLSWORTH1 

Ir  fell  upon  us  like  a  crushing  woe, 
Sudden  and  terrible.   "Can  it  be?"  we  said, 
"That  he  from  whom  we  hoped  so  much,  is 

dead, 

Most  foully  murdered  ere  he  met  the  foe  ? " 
Why  not?   The  men  that  would  disrupt  the 

State 
By  such  base  plots  as  theirs  —  frauds,  thefts, 

and  lies  — 

What  code  of  honor  do  they  recognize  ? 
They  thirst  for  blood  to  satisfy  their  hate, 
Our  blood :  so  be  it;  but  for  every  blow 
Woe  shall  befall  them;  not  in  their  wild 

way, 

But  stern  and  pitiless,  we  will  repay, 
Until,  like  swollen  streams,  their  blood  shall 

flow: 

1  From  Poetical  Writings  of  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard;  copyright,  1880,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


BETHEL 


And  should  we  pause;  the  thought  of  Ells 
worth  slain, 

Will  steel  our  aching  hearts  to  strike  again ! 
RICHAHD  HENRY  STODDAKD. 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF  "JACKSON" 

[May  24,  1861] 

NOT  where  the  battle  red 
Covers  with  fame  the  dead,  — 
Not  where  the  trumpet  calls 
Vengeance  for  each  that  falls,  — 
Not  with  his  comrades  dear, 
Not  there  —  he  fell  not  there. 

He  grasps  no  brother's  hand, 
He  sees  no  patriot  band; 
Daring  alone  the  foe 
He  strikes  —  then  waits  the  blow. 
Counting  his  life  not  dear, 
His  was  no  heart  to  fear! 

Shout !  shout,  his  deed  of  glory ! 
Tell  it  in  song  and  story; 
Tell  it  where  soldiers  brave 
Rush  fearless  to  their  grave; 
Tell  it  —  a  magic  spell 
In  that  great  deed  shall  dwell. 

Yes!  he  hath  won  a  name 
Deathless  for  aye  to  fame; 
Our  flag  baptized  in  blood, 
Always,  as  with  a  flood, 
Shall  sweep  the  tyrant  band 
Whose  feet  pollute  our  land. 

Then,  freemen,  raise  the  cry, 
As  freemen  live  or  die! 
Arm !  arm  you  for  the  fight ! 
His  banner  in  your  sight; 
And  this  your  battle-cry, 
"Jackson  and  victory!" 

General  Butler,  meanwhile,  had  been  sent  with 
reinforcements  to  Fortress  Monroe,  and  after 
making  that  important  post  secure,  began  various 
offensive  measures  against  the  Confederate  posts  in 
the  neighborhood,  manned  largely  by  Virginians. 

THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 
That,  since  the  days  of  old, 

Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 
Alight  in  hearts  of  gold; 


The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 

We  thought  they  slept !  —  the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil-fires; 
But  aye  the  "  Golden  Horseshoe "  knights 

Their  old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep! 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOH. 


On  the  night  of  June  9,  1861,  Butler  dispatched 
two  expeditions  against  Great  and  Little  Bethel, 
two  churches  on  the  Yorktown  road,  which  had 
been  strongly  fortified.  The  columns  got  confused 
in  the  darkness,  and  fired  upon  each  other.  In  the 
battle  which  followed,  the  same  mistake  was  made, 
and  the  Union  forces  finally  retreated,  having 
suffered  heavily. 


BETHEL 

[June  10,  1861] 

WE  mustered  at  midnight,  in  darkness  we 

formed, 
And  the  whisper  went  round  of  a  fort  to  be 

stormed ; 
But  no  drum-beat  had  called  us,  no  trumpet 

we  heard, 
And  no  voice  of  command,  but  our  colonel's 

low  word  — 
"Column!  Forward!" 

And  out,  through  the  mist,  and  the  murk  of 

the  morn, 
From  the  beaches  of  Hampton  our  barges 

were  borne; 
And  we  heard  not  a  sound,  save  the  sweep 

of  the  oar, 
Till  the  word  of  our  colonel  came  up  from 

the  shore  — 

"  Column !   Forward ! " 


4i8 


With  hearts  bounding  bravely,  and  eyes  all 

alight, 
As  ye  dance  to  soft  music,  so  trod  we  that 

night ; 
Through  the  aisles  of  the  greenwood,  with 

vines  overarched, 
Tossing  dew-drops,  like  gems,  from  our  feet, 

as  we  marched  — 

"  Column !  Forward ! " 

As  ye  dance  with  the  damsels,  to  viol  and 

flute. 
So  we  skipped  from  the  shadows,  and  mocked 

their  pursuit; 
But  the  soft  zephyrs  chased  us,  with  scents  of 

the  morn, 
As  we  passed  by  the  hay-fields  and  green 

waving  corn  — 

"  Column !  Forward ! " 

For  the  leaves  were  all  laden  with  fragrance 

of  June, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  foliage  with  sweets 

were  in  tune; 
And  the  air  was  so  calm,  and  the  forest  so 

dumb, 
That  we  heard  our  own  heart-beats,  like  taps 

of  a  drum  — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

Till  the  lull  of  the  lowlands  was  stirred  by  the 

breeze, 
And  the  buskins  of  morn  brushed  the  tops  of 

the  trees, 
And  the  glintings  of  glory  that  slid  from  her 

track 
By  the  sheen  of  our  rifles  were  gayly  flung 

back  — 
"Column!  Forward!" 

And  the  woodlands  grew  purple  with  sun 
shiny  mist, 

And  the  blue-crested  hill-tops  with  roselight 
were  kissed, 

And  the  earth  gave  her  prayers  to  the  sun  in 
perfumes, 

Till  we  marched  as  through  gardens,  and 
trampled  on  blooms  — 
"  Column !  Forward ! " 

Ay,  trampled  on  blossoms,  and  seared  the 

sweet  breath 
Of  the  greenwood  with  low-brooding  vapors 

of  death ; 


O'er  the  flowers  and  the  corn  we  were  borne 

like  a  blast, 
And    away   to    the  forefront  of   battle  we 

passed — 
"Column!  Forward!" 

For  the  cannon's  hoarse  thunder  roared  out 
from  the  glades, 

And  the  sun  was  like  lightning  on  banners  and 
blades. 

When  the  long  line  of  chanting  Zouaves,  like 
a  flood. 

From  the  green  of  the  woodlands  rolled.,  crim 
son  as  blood  — 

"Column!   Forward!" 

While  the  sound  of  their  song,  like  the  surge 

of  the  seas, 
With  the  "Star-Spangled   Banner"  swelled 

over  the  leas; 
And  the  sword  of  Duryea,  like  a  torch,  led  the 

way, 
Bearing  down  on  the  batteries  of  Bethel  that 

day  — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

Through  green  tasselled  cornfields  our  col 
umns  were  thrown, 

And  like  corn  by  the  red  scythe  of  fire  we  were 
mown ; 

While  the  cannon's  fierce  ploughings  new- 
furrowed  the  plain. 

That  our  blood  might  be  planted  for  Liberty's 
grain  — 

"Column!  Forward!" 

Oh !   the  fields  of  fair  June  have  no  lack  of 

sweet  flowers, 
But  their  rarest  and  best  breathe  no  fragrance 

like  ours; 
And  the  sunshine  of  June,  sprinkling  gold  on 

the  corn. 
Hath  no  harvest  that  ripeneth  like  Bethel's 

red  morn  — 

"  Column !   Forward ! " 

When  our  heroes,  like  bridegrooms,  with  lips 

and  with  breath, 
Drank  the  first  kiss  of  Danger  and  clasped  her 

in  death; 
And  the  heart  of  brave  Winthrop  grew  mute 

with  his  lyre, 
When  the  plumes  of  his  genius  lay  moulting 

in  fire — 
"  Column !  Forward ! " 


WAIT  FOR  THE  WAGON 


419 


Where  he  fell  shall  be  sunshine  as  bright  as 

his  name. 
And  the  grass  where  he  slept  shall  be  green  as 

his  fame; 
For  the  gold  of  the  pen  and  the  steel  of  the 

sword 
Write  his  deeds  —  in  his  blood  —  on  the  land 

he  adored  — 

"  Column !  Forward ! " 


And  the  soul  of  our  comrade  shall  sweeten  the 

air, 
And  the  flowers  and  the  grass-blades  his 

memory  upbear; 
While  the  breath  of  his  genius,  like  music  in 

leaves, 
With  the  corn-tassels  whispers,  and  sings  in 

the  sheaves  — 
"  Column !  Forward ! " 

A.  J.  H.   DUQANNE. 


Among  the  Union  dead  was  Major  Theodore 
Winthrop.  He  had  pressed  eagerly  forward,  and 
as  he  sprang  upon  a  log  to  get  a  view  of  the  posi 
tion,  was  shot  through  the  head. 


DIRGE 

FOR  ONE  WHO  FELL  IN  BATTLE 
[June  10,  1861] 

ROOM  for  a  Soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover; 
He  loved  the  fields,  and  they  shall  be  his 

cover; 
Make  his  mound  with  hers  who  called  him 

once  her  lover: 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 


Bear  him  to  no  dismal  tomb  under   city 

churches ; 
Take  him  to  the  fragrant  fields,  by  the  silver 

birches. 
Where  the  whippoorwill  shall  mourn,  where 

the  oriole  perches : 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 
Where  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  rain  will  rain  upon  it. 


Busy  as  the  busy  bee,  his  rest  should  be  the 

clover; 
Gentle  as  the  lamb  was  he,  and  the  fern  should 

be  his  cover; 
Fern  and  rosemary  shall  grow  my  soldier's 

pillow  over: 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it. 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  Iain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart,  the  rain  would  come 

full  often 
Out  of  those  tender  eyes  which  evermore  did 

soften ; 
He  never  could  look  cold,  till  we  saw  him  in 

his  coffin: 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 
W7here  the  wind  may  sigh  upon  it, 
Where  the  moon  may  stream  upon  it, 
And  Memory  shall  dream  upon  it. 

"Captain  or  Colonel,"  —  whatever  invoca 
tion 
Suit  our  hymn  the  best,  no  matter  for  thy 

station,  — 
On  thy  grave  the  rain  shall  fall  from  the  eyes 

of  a  mighty  nation ! 
Long  as  the  sun  doth  shine  upon  it 
Shall  grow  the  goodly  pine  upon  it, 
Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  Memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 
THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


About  fifty  thousand  Union  troops  had  mean 
while  been  collected  along  the  Potomac  —  a  force 
which  seemed  to  most  people  at  the  North  quite 
sufficient  to  crush  the  rebellion.  "  On  to  Rich 
mond!"  was  the  cry,  and  popular  clamor  de 
manded  that  the  advance  be  begun  at  once. 


WAIT  FOR  THE  WAGON 

[July  1,  1861] 

A  HUNDRED  thousand  Northmen, 

In  glittering  war  array. 
Shout,  "  Onward  now  to  Richmond ! 

We'll  brook  no  more  delay; 
Why  give  the  traitors  time  and  means 

To  fortify  the  way 
With  stolen  guns,  in  ambuscades? 

Oh!  answer  us,  we  pray." 


42O 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Chorus  of  Chieftains  — 

You  must  wait  for  the  wagons, 
The  real  army  wagons, 
The  fat  contract  wagons, 
Bought  in  the  red-tape  way. 

Now,  if  for  army  wagons, 

Not  for  compromise  you  wait, 
Just  ask  them  of  the  farmers 

Of  any  Union  state; 
And  if  you  need  ten  thousand, 

Sound,  sound,  though  second-hand, 
You'll  find  upon  the  instant 
A  supply  for  your  demand. 
Chorus — 

No !  wait  for  the  wagons, 
The  new  army  wagons, 
The  fat  contract  wagons, 
Till  the  fifteenth  of  July. 

No  swindling  fat  contractors 

Shall  block  the  people's  way, 
Nor  rebel  compromisers  — 

'T  is  treason's  reckoning  day. 
Then  shout  again  our  war-cry, 
To  Richmond  onward  move! 
We  now  can  crush  the  traitors, 
And  that  we  mean  to  prove! 
Chorus  — 

No!  wait  for  the  wagons, 
The  fat  contract  wagons; 
If  red-tape  so  wills  it, 
Wait  till  the  Judgment-day. 


During  the  months  of  June  and  July,  the  Con 
federate  forces  had  been  assembling  at  Manassas 
Junction,  about  thirty  miles  from  Washington. 
General  Beauregard  was  in  command,  and  had 
distributed  them  along  a  little  stream  called  Bull 
Run,  where  they  had  thrown  up  strong  intrench- 
ments.  On  July  15,  1861,  yielding  to  the  popular 
clamor,  General  Scott  ordered  the  forward  move 
ment  of  the  Union  army.  On  July  17  the  army 
reached  Fairfax  Court-House,  and  next  day  a 
division  moved  forward  to  Centreville  and  at 
tacked  the  Confederates  intrenched  along  Bull 
Run.  A  sharp  engagement  resulted,  and  the  Fed 
erals  fell  back. 

At  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Sunday,  July 
21,  1861,  the  Union  Army  again  moved  forward 
for  a  grand  attack.  Each  army  numbered  about 
thirty  thousand  men.  The  skirmishers  soon  got  into 
touch,  and  the  Confederates  were  driven  back,  but 
were  rallied  by  the  example  of  General  T.  J.  Jack 
son,  who  with  his  brigade  was  "  standing  like  a 
stonewall,"  as  General  Bee  exclaimed,  giving  him 
his  immortal  sobriquet.  The  Union  advance  was 
checked,  heavy  reinforcements  came  up  for  the 


Confederates,    and    the    Union    regiments    were 
finally  swept  from  the  field. 

UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTRE 
VILLE 

[July  21,  1861] 

I'LL  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  day: 
I  heard  the  great  guns  far  away, 
Boom  after  boom.   Their  sullen  sound 
Shook  all  the  shuddering  air  around ; 
And  shook,  ah  me !  my  shrinking  ear, 
And  downward  shook  the  hanging  tear 
That,  in  despite  of  manhood's  pride, 
Rolled  o'er  my  face  a  scalding  tide. 
And  then  I  prayed.   O  God !  I  prayed, 
As  never  stricken  saint,  who  laid 
His  hot  cheek  to  the  holy  tomb 
Of  Jesus,  in  the  midnight  gloom. 

"What  saw  I?"  Little.   Clouds  of  dust; 
Great  squares  of  men,  with  standards  thrust 
Against  their  course ;  dense  columns  crowned 
With  billowing  steel.  Then  bound  on  bound, 
The  long  black  lines  of  cannon  poured 
Behind  the  horses,  streaked  and  gored 
With  sweaty  speed.   Anon  shot  by, 
Like  a  lone  meteor  of  the  sky, 
A  single  horseman;  and  he  shone 
His  bright  face  on  me,  and  was  gone. 
All  these  with  rolling  drums,  with  cheers, 
With  songs  familiar  to  my  ears, 
Passed  under  the  far-hanging  cloud, 
And  vanished,  and  my  heart  was  proud! 

For  mile  on  mile  the  line  of  war 
Extended ;  and  a  steady  roar, 
As  of  some  distant  stormy  sea, 
On  the  south  wind  came  up  to  m.e. 
And  high  in  air,  and  over  all, 
Grew,  like  a  fog,  that  murky  pall, 
Beneath  whose  gloom  of  dusty  smoke 
The  cannon  flamed,  the  bombshell  broke. 
And  the  sharp  rattling  volley  rang. 
And  shrapnel  roared,  and  bullets  sang, 
And  fierce-eyed  men,  with  panting  breath, 
Toiled  onward  at  the  work  of  death. 
I  could  not  see,  but  knew  too  well, 
That  underneath  that  cloud  of  hell, 
Which  still  grew  more  by  great  degrees, 
Man  strove  with  man  in  deeds  like  these. 

But  when  the  sun  had  passed  his  stand 

At  noon,  behold !  on  every  hand 

The  dark  brown  vapor  backward  bore, 


UPON  THE  HILL   BEFORE   CENTREVILLE 


421 


And  fainter  came  the  dreadful  roar 
From  the  huge  sea  of  striving  men. 
Thus  spoke  my  rising  spirit  then: 
"Take  comfort  from  that  dying  sound, 
Faint  heart,  the  foe  is  giving  ground ! " 
And  one,  who  taxed  his  horse's  powers, 
Flung  at  me,  "  Ho !  the  day  is  ours ! " 
And  scoured  along.  So  swift  his  pace, 
I  took  no  memory  of  his  face. 
Then  turned  I  once  again  to  Heaven; 
All  things  appeared  so  just  and  even; 
So  clearly  from  the  highest  Cause 
Traced  I  the  downward-working  laws  — 
Those  moral  springs,  made  evident, 
In  the  grand,  triumph-crowned  event. 
So  half  I  shouted,  and  half  sang, 
Like  .Tephtha's  daughter,  to  the  clang 
Of  my  spread,  cymbal-striking  palms, 
Some  fragments  of  thanksgiving  psalms. 

Meanwhile  a  solemn  stillness  fell 
Upon  the  land.   O'er  hill  and  dell 
Failed  every  sound.  My  heart  stood  still, 
Waiting  before  some  coming  ill. 
The  silence  was  more  sad  and  dread, 
Under  that  canopy  of  lead, 
Than  the  wild  tumult  of  the  war 
That  raged  a  little  while  before. 
All  Nature,  in  her  work  of  death, 
Paused  for  one  last,  despairing  breath; 
And,  cowering  to  the  earth,  I  drew 
From  her  strong  breast  my  strength  anew. 

When  I  arose,  I  wondering  saw 

Another  dusty  vapor  draw, 

From  the  far  right,  its  sluggish  way 

Toward  the  main  cloud,  that  frowning  lay 

Against  the  western  sloping  sun: 

And  all  the  war  was  re-begun, 

Ere  this  fresh  marvel  of  my  sense 

Caught  from  my  mind  significance. 

And  then  —  why  ask  me  ?  O  my  God ! 

Would  I  had  lain  beneath  the  sod, 

A  patient  clod,  for  many  a  day, 

And  from  my  bones  and  mouldering  clay 

The  rank  field  grass  and  flowers  had  sprung. 

Ere  the  base  sight,  that  struck  and  stung 

My  very  soul,  confronted  me, 

Shamed  at  my  own  humanity. 

O  happy  dead !  who  early  fell, 

Ye  have  no  wretched  tale  to  tell 

Of  causeless  fear  and  coward  flight, 

Of  victory  snatched  beneath  your  sight, 

Of  martial  strength  and  honor  lost, 

Of  mere  life  bought  at  any  cost, 


Of  the  deep,  lingering  mark  of  shame, 
Forever  scorched  on  brow  and  name, 
That  no  new  deeds,  however  bright, 
Shall  banish  from  men's  loathful  sight! 

Ye  perished  in  your  conscious  pride, 
Ere  this  vile  scandal  opened  wide 
A  wound  that  cannot  close  nor  heal. 
Ye  perished  steel  to  levelled  steel, 
Stern  votaries  of  the  god  of  war, 
Filled  with  his  godhead  to  the  core! 
Ye  died  to  live,  these  lived  to  die, 
Beneath  the  scorn  of  every  eye! 
How  eloquent  your  voices  sound 
From  the  low  chambers  under  ground! 
How  clear  each  separate  title  burns 
From  your  high-set  and  laurelled  urns ! 
While  these,  who  walk  about  the  earth, 
Are  blushing  at  their  very  birth! 
And,  though  they  talk,  and  go,  and  come, 
Their  moving  lips  are  worse  than  dumb. 
Ye  sleep  beneath  the  valley's  dew,  , 
And  all  the  nation  mourns  for  you; 
So  sleep  till  God  shall  wake  the  lands! 
For  angels,  armed  with  fiery  brands, 
Await  to  take  you  by  the  hands. 

The  right-hand  vapor  broader  grew; 
It  rose,  and  joined  itself  unto 
The  main  cloud  with  a  sudden  dash. 
Loud  and  more  near  the  cannon's  crash 
Came  toward  me,  and  I  heard  a  sound 
As  if  all  hell  had  broken  bound  — 
A  cry  of  agony  and  fear. 
Still  the  dark  vapcr  rolled  more  near, 
Till  at  my  very  feet  it  tossed, 
The  vanward  fragments  of  our  host. 
Can  man,  Thy  image,  sink  so  low, 
Thou,  who  hast  bent  Thy  tinted  bow 
Across  the  storm  and  raging  main; 
Whose  laws  both  loosen  and  restrain 
The  powers  of  earth,  without  whose  will 
No  sparrow's  little  life  is  still  ? 
Was  fear  of  hell,  or  want  of  faith, 
Or  the  brute's  common  dread  of  death 
The  passion  that  began  a  chase, 
Whose  goal  was  ruin  and  disgrace? 
What  tongue  the  fearful  sight  may  tell  ? 
What  horrid  nightmare  ever  fell 
Upon  the  restless  sleep  of  crime  —    • 
What  history  of  another  time  — 
What  dismal  vision,  darkly  seen 
By  the  stern-featured  Florentine, 
Can  give  a  hint  to  dimly  draw 
The  likeness  of  the  scene  I  saw  ? 


422 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


I  saw,  yet  saw  not.   In  that  sea. 

That  chaos  of  humanity, 

No  more  the  eye  could  catch  and  keep 

A  single  point,  than  on  the  deep 

The  eye  may  mark  a  single  wave, 

Where  hurrying  myriads  leap  and  rave. 

Men  of  all  arms,  and  all  costumes, 

Bare-headed,  decked  with  broken  plumes; 

Soldiers  and  officers,  and  those 

Who  wore  but  civil-suited  clothes; 

On  foot  or  mounted  —  some  bestrode 

Steeds  severed  from  their  harnessed  load ; 

Wild  mobs  of  white-topped  wagons,  cars, 

Of  wounded,  red  with  bleeding  scars; 

The  whole  grim  panoply  of  war 

Surged  on  me  with  a  deafening  roar! 

All  shades  of  fear,  disfiguring  man, 

Glared  through  their  faces'  brazen  tan. 

Not  one  a  moment  paused,  or  stood 

To  see  what  enemy  pursued. 

With  shrieks  of  fear,  and  yells  of  pain, 

With  every  muscle  on  the  strain, 

Onward  the  struggling  masses  bore. 

Oh !  had  the  foemen  lain  before, 

They'd  trampled  them  to  dust  and  gore, 

And  swept  their  lines  and  batteries 

As  autumn  sweeps  the  wind}7  trees! 

Here  one  cast  forth  his  wounded  friend. 

And  with  his  sword  or  musket-end 

Urged  on  the  horses;  there  one  trod 

Upon  the  likeness  of  his  God, 

As  if  't  were  dust;  a  coward  here 

Grew  valiant  with  his  very  fear. 

And  struck  his  weaker  comrade  prone, 

And  struggled  to  the  front  alone. 

All  had  one  purpose,  one  sole  aim, 

That  mocked  the  decency  of  shame,  — 

To  fly,  by  any  means  to  fly; 

They  cared  not  how,  they  asked  not  why. 

I  found  a  voice.   My  burning  blood 

Flamed  up.  Upon  a  mound  I  stood; 

I  could  no  more  restrain  my  voice 

Than  could  the  prophet  of  God's  choice. 

"Back,  animated  dirt!"  I  cried, 

"  Back,  on  your  wretched  lives,  and  hide 

Your  shame  beneath  your  native  clay ! 

Or  if  the  foe  affrights  you,  slay 

Your  own  base  selves;  and,  dying,  leave 

Your  children's  tearful  cheeks  to  grieve, 

Not  quail  and  blush,  when  you  shall  come, 

Alive,  to  their  degraded  home! 

Your  wives  will  look  askance  with  scorn; 

Your  boys,  and  infants  yet  unborn, 

Will  curse  you  to  God's  holy  face! 

Heaven  holds  no  pardon  in  its  grace 


For  cowards.   Oh !  are  such  as  ye 

The  guardians  of  our  liberty  ? 

Back,  if  one  trace  of  manhood  still 

May  nerve  your  arm  and  brace  your  will! 

You  stain  your  country  in  the  eyes 

Of  Europe  and  her  monarchies ! 

The  despots  laugh,  the  peoples  groan; 

Man's  cause  is  lost  and  overthrown ! 

I  curse  you,  by  the  sacred  blood 

That  freely  poured  its  purple  flood 

Down  Bunker's  heights,  on  Monmouth's  plain, 

From  Georgia  to  the  rocks  of  Maine ! 

I  curse  you,  by  the  patriot  band 

Whose  bones  are  crumbling  in  the  land ! 

By  those  who  saved  what  these  had  won 

In  the  high  name  of  Washington ! " 

Then  I  remember  little  more. 

As  the  tide's  rising  waves,  that  pour 

Over  some  low  and  rounded  rock, 

The  coming  mass,  with  one  great  shock, 

Flowed  o'er  the  shelter  of  my  mound, 

And  raised  me  helpless  from  the  ground. 

As  the  huge  shouldering  billows  bear, 

Half  in  the  sea  and  half  in  air, 

A  swimmer  on  their  foaming  crest, 

So  the  foul  throng  beneath  me  pressed, 

Swept  me  along,  with  curse  and  blow, 

And  flung  me  —  where,  I  ne'er  shall  know. 

When  I  awoke,  a  steady  rain 

Made  rivulets  across  the  plain; 

And  it  was  dark  —  oh,  very  dark. 

I  was  so  stunned  as  scarce  to  mark 

The  ghostly  figures  of  the  trees, 

Or  hear  the  sobbing  of  the  breeze 

That  flung  the  wet  leaves  to  and  fro. 

Upon  me  lay  a  dismal  woe, 

A  boundless,  superhuman  grief, 

That  drew  no  promise  of  relief 

From  any  hope.   Then  I  arose, 

As  one  who  struggles  up  from  blows 

By  unseen  hands;  and  as  I  stood 

Alone,  I  thought  that  God  was  good, 

To  hide,  in  clouds  and  driving  rain, 

Our  low  world  from  the  angel  train, 

Whose  souls  filled  heroes  when  the  earth 

Was  worthy  of  their  noble  birth. 

By  that  dull  instinct  of  the  mind, 

Which  leads  aright  the  helpless  blind, 

I  struggled  onward,  till  the  dawn 

Across  the  eastern  clouds  had  drawn 

A  narrow  line  of  watery  gray; 

And  full  before  my  vision  lay 

The  great  dome's  gaunt  and  naked  bones 


MANASSAS 


423 


Beneath  whose  crown  the  nation  thrones 

Her  queenly  person.   On  I  stole, 

With  hanging  head  and  abject  soul, 

Across  the  high  embattled  ridge, 

And  o'er  the  arches  of  the  bridge. 

So  freshly  pricked  my  sharp  disgrace, 

I  feared  to  meet  the  human  face, 

Skulking,  as  any  woman  might, 

Who  'd  lost  her  virtue  in  the  night, 

And  sees  the  dreadful  glare  of  day 

Prepare  to  light  her  homeward  way, 

Alone,  heart-broken,  shamed,  undone, 

I  staggered  into  Washington! 

Since  then  long  sluggish  days  have  passed, 

And  on  the  wings  of  every  blast 

Have  come  the  distant  nations'  sneers 

To  tingle  in  our  blushing  ears. 

In  woe  and  ashes,  as  was  meet, 

We  wore  the  penitential  sheet. 

But  now  I  breathe  a  purer  air, 

And  from  the  depths  of  my  despair 

Awaken  to  a  cheering  morn, 

Just  breaking  through  the  night  forlorn, 

A  morn  of  hopeful  victory. 

Awake,  my  countrymen,  with  me! 

Redeem  the  honor  which  you  lost. 

With  any  blood,  at  any  cost! 

I  ask  not  how  the  war  began, 

Nor  how  the  quarrel  branched  and  ran 

To  this  dread  height.   The  wrong  or  right 

Stands  clear  before  God's  faultless  sight. 

I  only  feel  the  shameful  blow, 

I  only  see  the  scornful  foe, 

And  vengeance  burns  in  every  vein 

To  die,  or  wipe  away  the  stain. 

The  war-wise  hero  of  the  west, 

Wearing  his  glories  as  a  crest, 

Of  trophies  gathered  in  your  sight, 

Is  arming  for  the  coming  fight. 

Full  well  his  wisdom  apprehends 

The  duty  and  its  mighty  ends; 

The  great  occasion  of  the  hour, 

That  never  lay  in  human  power 

Since  over  Yorktown's  tented  plain 

The  red  cross  fell,  nor  rose  again. 

My  humble  pledge  of  faith  I  lay, 

Dear  comrade  of  my  school-boy  day, 

Before  thee,  in  the  nation's  view, 

And  if  thy  prophet  prove  untrue, 

And  from  our  country's  grasp  be  thrown 

The  sceptre  and  the  starry* crown, 

And  thou,  and  all  thy  marshalled  host 

Be  baffled  and  in  ruin  lost; 

Oh !  let  me  not  outlive  the  blow 

That  seals  my  country's  overthrow ! 


And,  lest  this  woful  end  come  true, 
Men  of  the  North,  I  turn  to  you. 
Display  your  vaunted  flag  once  more, 
Southward  your  eager  columns  pour! 
Sound  trump,  and  fife,  and  rallying  drum ; 
From  every  hill  and  valley  come. 
Old  men,  yield  up  your  treasured  gold ! 
Can  liberty  be  priced  and  sold  ? 
Fair  matrons,  maids,  and  tender  brides 
Gird  weapons  to  your  lovers'  sides; 
And  though  your  hearts  break  at  the  deed, 
Give  them  your  blessing  and  God-speed ; 
Then  point  them  to  the  field  of  flame, 
With  words  like  those  of  Sparta's  dame; 
And  when  the  ranks  are  full  and  strong, 
And  the  whole  army  moves  along, 
A  vast  result  of  care  and  skill, 
Obedient  to  the  master  will; 
And  your  young  hero  draws  the  sword, 
And  gives  the  last  commanding  word 
That  hurls  your  strength  upon  the  foe  — 
Oh !  let  them  need  no  second  blow. 
Strike,  as  your  fathers  struck  of  old ; 
Through  summer's  heat,  and  winter's  cold ; 
Through  pain,  disaster,  and  defeat; 
Through    marches    tracked    with    bloody 

feet; 

Through  every  ill  that  could  befall 
The  holy  cause  that  bound  them  all! 
Strike  as  they  struck  for  liberty! 
Strike  as  they  struck  to  make  you  free! 
Strike  for  the  crown  of  victory ! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKEE. 


MANASSAS 

[July  21,  1861] 

THEY  have  met  at  last  —  as  storm-clouds 

Meet  in  heaven, 
And  the  Northmen  back  and  bleeding 

Have  been  driven; 

And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks  with  terror  thrilled, 

Rent  and  riven! 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallambrosa 

They  are  lying; 
In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

Dead  and  dying; 
Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 
Swept  their  legions,  wild  and  pale; 
While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 

Stood,  defying. 


424 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


When  aloft  in  morning  sunlight 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "swift  vengeance  on  the  rebel" 

Proudly  vaunted: 
Little  did  they  think  that  night 
Should  close  upon  their  shameful  flight, 
And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

Stand  undaunted. 

But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes! 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them; 

Green  the  grasses ! 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray 

At  Manassas. 

CATHERINE  M.  WARFIELD. 


A  BATTLE  BALLAD 

TO  GENERAL  J.   E.  JOHNSTON 

A  SUMMER  Sunday  morning, 

July  the  twenty-first, 
In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-one, 

The  storm  of  battle  burst. 

For  many  a  year  the  thunder 
Had  muttered  deep  and  low, 

And  many  a  year,  through  hope  and 

fear, 
The  storm  had  gathered  slow. 

Now  hope  had  fled  the  hopeful, 
And  fear  was  with  the  past; 

And  on  Manassas'  cornfields 
The  tempest  broke  at  last. 

A  wreath  above  the  pine-tops, 

The  booming  of  a  gun; 
A  ripple  on  the  cornfields, 

And  the  battle  was  begun. 

A  feint  upon  our  centre, 

While  the  foeman  massed  his  might, 
For  our  swift  and  sure  destruction, 

With  his  overwhelming  "right." 

All  the  summer  air  was  darkened 
With  the  tramping  of  their  host; 

All  the  Sunday  stillness  broken 
By  the  clamor  of  their  boast. 


With  their  lips  of  savage  shouting, 
And  their  eyes  of  sullen  wrath, 

Goliath,  with  the  weaver-beam, 
The  champion  of  Gath. 

Are  they  men  who  guard  the  passes, 

On  our  "left"  so  far  away? 
In  the  cornfields,  O  Manassas! 

Are  they  men  who  fought  to-day  ? 

Our  boys  are  brave  and  gentle, 

And  their  brows  are  smooth  and  white; 
Have  they  grown  to  men,  Manassas, 

In  the  watches  of  a  night  ? 

Beyond  the  grassy  hillocks 

There  are  tents  that  glimmer  white; 
Beneath  the  leafy  covert 

There  is  steel  that  glistens  bright. 

There  are  eyes  of  watchful  reapers 

Beneath  the  summer  leaves, 
With  a  glitter  as  of  sickles 

Impatient  for  the  sheaves. 

They  are  men  who  guard  the  passes, 
They  are  men  who  bar  the  ford ; 

Stands  our  David  at  Manassas, 
The  champion  of  the  Lord. 

They  are  men  who  guard  our  altars, 
And  beware,  ye  sons  of  Gath, 

The  deep  and  dreadful  silence 
Of  the  lion  in  your  path. 

Lo !  the  foe  was  mad  for  slaughter, 
And  the  whirlwind  hurtled  on; 

But  our  boys  had  grown  to  heroes, 
They  were  Horn,  every  one. 

And  they  stood  a  wall  of  iron, 
And  they  shone  a  wall  of  flame, 

And  they  beat  the  baffled  tempest 
To  the  caverns  whence  it  came. 

And  Manassas'  sun  descended 

On  their  armies  crushed  and  torn, 

On  a  battle  bravely  ended, 
On  a  nation  grandly  born. 

The  laurel  and  the  cypress, 

The  glory  and  the  grave, 
We  pledge  to  thee,  O  Liberty! 

The  life-blood  of  the  brave. 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOE, 


THE   RUN   FROM   MANASSAS   JUNCTION 


425 


Retreat  soon  turned  to  flight  and  flight  to  panic. 
A  great  crowd  of  officials  and  civilians,  male  and 
female,  had  driven  out  from  Washington  to  the 
battlefield  to  witness  a  victory  which  they  con 
sidered  certain.  They  were  furnished  with  passes, 
and  picnicked  and  wined  and  jested  and  watched 
the  distant  conflict.  Suddenly  the  Union  army 
gave  way,  the  Confederates  dashed  forward  in 
pursuit,  and  soldiers  and  civilians  were  mixed 
together  in  one  panic-stricken  mob. 


THE  RUN  FROM  MANASSAS  JUNC 
TION 

[July  21,  1861] 

YANKEE  DOODLE  went  to  war, 

On  his  little  pony; 
What  did  he  go  fighting  for, 

Everlasting  goney ! 
Yankee  Doodle  was  a  chap 

Who  bragged  and  swore  tarnation, 
He  stuck  a  feather  in  his  cap, 
And  called  it  Federation. 
Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankee  Doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

Yankee  Doodle,  he  went  forth 

To  conquer  the  seceders, 
All  the  journals  of  the  North, 

In  most  ferocious  leaders, 
Breathing  slaughter,  fire,  and  smoke, 

Especially  the  latter, 
His  rage  and  fury  to  provoke, 

And  vanity  to  flatter. 

Yankee  Doodle,  having  floored 

His  separated  brothers, 
He  reckoned  his  victorious  sword 

Would  turn  against  us  others; 
Secession  first  he  would  put  down, 

Wholly  and  forever. 
And  afterward,  from  Britain's  crown, 

He  Canada  would  sever. 

England  offering  neutral  sauce 

To  goose  as  well  as  gander. 
Was  what  made  Yankee  Doodle  cross, 

And  did  inflame  his  dander. 
As  though  with  choler  drunk  he  fumed, 

And  threatened  vengeance  martial, 
Because  Old  England  had  presumed 

To  steer  a  course  impartial. 


Yankee  Doodle  bore  in  mind, 

When  warfare  England  harassed, 
How  he,  unfriendly  and  unkind, 

Beset  her  and  embarrassed ; 
He  put  himself  in  England's  place. 

And  thought  this  injured  nation 
Must  view  his  trouble  with  a  base 

Vindictive  exultation. 

We  for  North  and  South  alike 

Entertain  affection; 
These  for  negro  slavery  strike; 

Those  for  forced  protection. 
Yankee  Doodle  is  the  pot, 

Southerner  the  kettle; 
Equal  morally,  if  not 

Men  of  equal  mettle. 

Yankee  Doodle,  near  Bull  Run, 

Met  his  adversary. 
First  he  thought  the  fight  he'd  won, 

Fact  proved  quite  contrary. 
Panic-struck  he  fled,  with  speed 

Of  lightning  glib  with  unction, 
Of  slippery  grease,  in  full  stampede, 

From  famed  Manassas  Junction. 

As  he  bolted,  no  ways  slow, 

Yankee  Doodle  hallooed, 
'We  are  whipped!"  and  fled,  although 

No  pursuer  followed. 
Sword  and  gun  right  slick  he  threw 

Both  away  together, 
In  his  cap,  to  public  view, 

Showing  the  white  feather. 

Yankee  Doodle,  Doodle,  do, 

Whither  are  you  flying, 
'A  cocked  hat  we've  been  licked  into, 

And  knocked  to  Hades,"  crying? 
Well,  to  Canada,  sir-ree, 

Now  that,  by  secession, 
I  am  driven  up  a  tree, 

To  seize  that  there  possession. 

Yankee  Doodle,  be  content, 

You've  had  a  lenient  whipping; 
Court  not  further  punishment 

By  enterprise  of  stripping 
Those  neighbors,  whom  if  you  assail, 

They'll  surely  whip  you  hollow; 
Moreover,  when  you've  turned  your  tail. 

Won't  hesitate  to  follow. 


426 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  flight  of  the  Union  forces  was  watched  with 
exultation  by  Jefferson  Davis,  who  was  at  Con 
federate  headquarters,  and  who  at  once  wired 
news  of  the  victory  to  the  Confederate  Congress 
at  Richmond.  Throughout  the  South,  the  news 
was  naturally  received  with  deep  rejoicing. 


ON  TO  RICHMOND 

AFTER  SOUTHEY'S  "MARCH  TO  MOSCOW" 

MAJOR-GENERAL  SCOTT 

An  order  had  got 
To  push  on  the  column  to  Richmond; 

For  loudly  went  forth, 

From  all  parts  of  the  North, 
The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be 

made 

In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  Fall  Trade: 
Mr.  Greeley  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 
The  Yankees  "to  hum"  were  all  hot  for  the 
fray; 

The  chivalrous  Grow 

Declared  they  were  slow,  — 

And  therefore  the  order 

To  march  from  the  border 
And  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 
Most  likely  was  not 

Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot; 
In  his  private  opinion 
The  Ancient  Dominion 
Deserved   to   be   pillaged,  her   sons   to    be 

shot, 

And  the  reason  is  easily  noted; 
Though  this  part  of  the  earth 
Had  given  him  birth, 
And  medals  and  swords, 
Inscribed  in  fine  words, 

It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 
Besides,  you  must  know,  that  our  First  of 

Commanders 
Had  sworn  quite  as  hard  as  the  army  in 

Flanders, 
With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of 

navies, 
To  wreak  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson 

Davis. 
Then,  "Forward  the  column,"  he  said  to 

McDowell; 

And  the  Zouaves  with  a  shout, 
Most  fiercely  cried  out, 
"To  Richmond  or  h-ll!"  (I  omit  here  the 
vowel) 


And  Winfield  he  ordered  his  carriage  and 

four, 

A  dashing  turnout,  to  be  brought  to  the  door, 
For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 
Had  there  on  the  spot 
A  splendid  array 
To  plunder  and  slay; 
In  the  camp  he  might  boast 
Such  a  numerous  host, 
As  he  never  had  yet 
In  the  battlefield  set; 

Every  class  and  condition  of  Northern  so 
ciety 

Were  in  for  the  trip,  a  most  varied  variety : 
In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in 

vogue, 
"The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish 

brogue." 

The  buthiful  boy 
From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 
Was  there  to  employ 
His  excellent  cannon; 
And  besides  the  long  files  of  dragoons  and 

artillery, 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 
All  the  children  of  Mars  — 
There  were  barbers  and  cooks, 
And  writers  of  books,  — 
.The  chef  de  cuisine  with  his  French  bill  of 

fare, 
And  the  artists  to  dress  the  young  officers' 

hair. 

And  the  scribblers  were  ready  at  once  to  pre 
pare 

An  eloquent  story 
Of  conquest  and  glory; 
And   servants   with   numberless   baskets   of 

Sillery, 
Though  Wilson,  the  Senator,  followed  the 

train, 
At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "conduct  the 

Champagne  /" 
While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was 

so  blue, 
There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleasant  to 

do, 
On  this  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

In  Congress  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of  ac 
tion, 

To  crush  out  instanter  the  traitorous  faction. 
In  the  press,  and  the  mess, 
They  would  hear  nothing  less 


CAST  DOWN,  BUT  NOT  DESTROYED 


427 


Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite  of  rhyme  or 

of  reason, 

And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent  treason. 
There  was  Greeley, 
And  Ely, 

And  bloodthirsty  Grow, 
And  Hickman  (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman  the 

beau), 

And  that  terrible  Baker 
Who  would  seize  of  the  South  every  acre. 
And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into  the 

Gulf,  or 

Some  nameless  locality  smelling  of  sulphur ; 
And  with  all  this  bold  crew, 
Nothing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky 

was  so  blue, 
But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 

Then  the  gallant  McDowell 
Drove  madly  the  rowel 
Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "won"  by  him, 
In  the  flank  of  his  steed, 
To  accomplish  a  deed, 

Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by  him ; 
And  the  battery  called  Sherman's 

Was  wheeled  into  line 
While  the  beer-drinking  Germans 

From  Neckar  and  Rhine, 
With  minie  and  yager, 
Come  on  with  a  swagger, 
Full  of  fury  and  lager 

(The  day  and  the  pageant  were  equally  fine). 
Oh !  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was 

so  blue, 

Indeed  't  was  a  spectacle  pleasant  to  view, 
As  the  column  pushed  on  ward  to  Richmond. 

Ere  the  march  was  begun, 

In  a  spirit  of  fun, 

General  Scott  in  a  speech 

Said  the  army  should  teach 
The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  laws  to  obey, 
And  just  before  dusk  of  the  third  or  fourth  day, 
Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 

He  spoke  of  their  drill,  . 
And  their  courage  and  skill, 
And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Richmond 

would  rave 
O'er  such  matchless  perfection,  and  gracefully 

wave 

In  rapture  their  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air 
At  their  morning  parades  on   the  Capitol 
Square. 


But  alack!  and  alas! 
Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 
When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 
Amid  war's  loudest  thunder, 
Must  stupidly  blunder 
Upon  those  accursed  "masked  batteries." 
Then  Beauregard  came, 
Like  a  tempest  of  flame, 
To  consume  them  in  wrath, 
In  their  perilous  path; 
And  Johnson  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind  to 

sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field, 
Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed, 
As  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the 

deep; 
While   swift   on    the   centre   our    President 

pressed, 

And  the  foe  might  descry, 
In  the  glance  of  his  eye, 
The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diomede's 

crest. 
McDowell!   McDowell!  weep,  weep  for  the 

day, 
When  the  Southrons  you  met  in  their  battle 

array; 
To  your  confident  hosts  with  its  .bullets  and 

steel, 
*T  was    worse    than    Culloden    to    luckless 

Lochiel. 
Oh !  the  generals  were  green,  and  old  Scott  is 

now  blue, 

And  a  terrible  business,  McDowell,  to  you, 
Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


At  the  North  news  of  the  defeat  caused  a  bitter 
discouragement,  which  soon  gave  place  to  deter 
mination  to  push  the  war  through.  On  July  22, 
1861,  Congress  authorized  the  enlistment  of  five 
hundred  thousand  men.  The  term  of  enlistment 
was  for  three  years,  or  during  the  war.  and  the 
North  girded  itself  anew  for  the  conflict. 


CAST  DOWN,  BUT  NOT  DESTROYED 

OH,  Northern  men  —  true  hearts  and  bold  — 
Unflinching  to  the  conflict  press! 

Firmly  our  country's  flag  uphold, 
Till  traitorous  foes  its  sway  confess ! 

Not  lightly  was  our  freedom  bought, 
By  many  a  martyr's  cross  and  grave; 

Six  weary  years  our  fathers  fought, 
'Midst  want  and  peril,  sternly  brave. 


428 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  thrice  six  years,  with  tightening  coil, 
Still  closer  wound  by  treacherous  art, 

Men  —  children  of  our  common  soil  — 
Have  preyed  upon  the  nation's  heart! 

Yet  still  it  beats,  responsive,  deep, 

Its   strong  pulse  throbbing  through   the 

land, 
Gathering  a  human  flood,  to  sweep 

Resistless,  o'er  the  rebel  band ! 

Firmly  resolved  to  win  success, 
We'll  tread  the  path  our  fathers  trod, 

Unflinching  to  the  conflict  press, 
And,  fearless,  trust  our  cause  to  God! 
New  York  Evening  Pott,  July  26,  1861. 


The  North  soon  had  another  bitter  pill  to  swal 
low.  On  May  13,  1861,  Great  Britain  issued  a 
proclamation  of  neutrality,  recognizing  the  Con 
federacy  as  a  belligerent  power.  England's  sym 
pathy,  because  of  close  trade  relations,  was  with 
the  South,  and  the  Southern  people  counted  on 
her  eventually  recognizing  their  independence. 


SHOP  AND  FREEDOM 

[May  13,  1861] 

THOUGH  with  the  North  we  sympathize, 

It  must  not  be  forgotten 
That  with  the  South  we've  stronger  ties, 

Which  are  composed  of  cotton, 
Whereof  our  imports  'mount  unto 

A  sum  of  many  figures; 
And  where  would  be  our  calico, 

Without  the  toil  of  niggers  ? 

The  South  enslaves  those  fellow-men 

Whom  we  love  all  so  dearly; 
The  North  keeps  commerce  bound  again, 

Which  touches  us  more  nearly. 
Thus  a  divided  duty  we 

Perceive  in  this  hard  matter  — 
Free  trade,  or  sable  brothers  free  ? 

Oh,  will  we  choose  the  latter! 
London  Punch. 


James  M.  Mason  and  John  Slidell  were  ap 
pointed  commissioners  from  the  Confederacy  to 
England  and  France;  they  reached  Havana  on  a 
little  steamer  that  had  run  the  blockade,  and 
took  passage  for  Southampton  in  the  British  mail 
steamship  Trent.  On  November  8,  1861,  in  the 
Bahama  Channel,  the  Trent  was  overhauled  by  the 


American  man-of-war  San  Jacinto,  Captain  Wilkes. 
She  was  compelled  to  stop,  and  Mason  and  Slidell 
and  their  secretaries  were  taken  from  her  by 
force. 


THE  C.  S.  A.  COMMISSIONERS 

[November,  1861] 

YE  jolly  Yankee  gentlemen,  who  live  at  home 

in  ease, 
How  little  do  ye  think  upon  the  dangers  of  the 

seas! 
The  winds  and  waves,  the  whales  and  sharks, 

you've  heard  of  long  ago, 
But  there  are  things  much  worse  than  these, 

as  presently  I  '11  show. 
If  you're  a  true-bred  Union  man,  go  joyful 

where  you  please; 
Beneath  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  cross 

safe  the  stormy  seas; 
But    look   out    for    San    Jacintos  that  may 

catch  you  on  your  way, 
If  you're  acting  as   Commissioner  for  the 

noble  C.  S.  A. 

And  now  you'll  guess  my  subject,  and  what 

my  song's  about; 
But  I  'd  not  have  put  them  into  rhyme,  if  they 

had  n't  first  put  out ; 
For  they  put  out  of  Charleston,  when  the  night 

was  drear  and  dark. 
And  then  they  put  out  all  the  lights,  that  they 

might  not  be  a  mark; 
And  then  they  did  put  out  to  sea  (though  here 

there  seems  a  hitch, 
For  what  could  they  expect  to  see  when  the 

night  was  black  as  pitch?), 
But  they  somehow  'scaped  the  Union  ships, 

and  hoped  on  some  fine  day 
To  land  in  Europe  and  to  "blow"  about  the 

C.  S.  A. 

They   safely  got   to   Cuba   and   landed   in 

Havana ; 
Described    the   power   and    glory   of    New 

Orleans  and  Savannah ; 
Declared  that  running  the  blockade  was  a 

thing  by  no  means  hard, 
And  boasted  of  the  vic'tries  won  by  their 

valiant  Beauregard; 
Davis's  skill  in  government  could  never  be 

surpassed  — 
The  amazing  strokes  of  genius  by  which  he 

cash  amassed; 


DEATH   OF   THE  LINCOLN  DESPOTISM 


429 


Foreign  bankers  would  acknowledge,  ere  a 

month  had  passed  away, 
That  the  true  financial  paradise  was  in  the 

C.  S.  A. 


Some  days  are  passed,  and  pleasantly,  upon 

Bermuda's  Isle, 
The  sun  is  shining  bright  and  fair,  and  nature 

seems  to  smile; 
The  breezes   moved    the    British  flag    that 

fluttered  o'er  the  Trent, 
And  the  ripples  rose  to  lave  her  sides,  as 

proudly  on  she  went. 
Mason  and  Slidell,  on  deck,  thought  all  their 

dangers  past, 
And  poked  each  other's  ribs  and  laughed,  as 

they  leant  against  the  mast: 
"Have  n't  the  Yankees  just  been  done  un 
commonly  nice,  eh  ? 
They've  got  most  money,  but  the  brains  are 

in  the  C.  S.  A.!" 

You  have  heard  the  ancient  proverb,  and, 

though  old,  it's  very  good, 
Which  hints  "it's  better  not  to  crow  until 

you've  left  the  wood." 
And  so  it  proved  with  these  two  gents ;  for  at 

that  moment  —  souse ! 
A  cannon-shot  fell  splash  across  the  steamer's 

bows. 
The  San  Jacinto  came  up  close,  and  though 

rather  rude,  't  is  true, 
Good  Wilkes  he  hailed  the  Trent  and  said, 

"I'll  thank  you  to  heave  to; 
If  you  don't  give  up  two  rascals,  I  must  blow 

you  right  away. 
Mason  and  Slidell  they're  named,  and  they're 

from  the  C.  S.  A." 

The  British  captain  raged  and  swore;  but 

then  what  could  he  do  ? 
It  scarcely  would  be  worth  his  while  to  be 

blown  up,  he  knew; 
Wilkes's  marines,  with  bayonets  fixed,  were 

standing  on  the  Trent, 
So  he  gave  up  the  traitors,  and  o'er  the  side 

they  went. 
Wilkes,  having  got  them,  wished  they'd  feel 

pleasant  and  at  home, 
So  offered  his  best  cabins,  if  their  ladies  chose 

to  come; 
But    they    shook    their    heads    and    merely 

smiled,  I'm  sorry  for  to  say, 
Conjugality 's  at  a  discount  down  in  the  C.  S.  A. 


They  coolly    said    unto    their    lords,  "Our 

dresses  all  are  new; 
What  on  earth  would  be  the  use  of  going  back 

with  you  ? 
And  though  we  're  very  sorry  that  your  plans 

are  undone, 
We  mean  to  pass  the  winter  in  Paris  and  in 

London. 
'Stead  of  bothering  you,  and  sharing  your 

prison  beds  and  fetters, 
We'll  write  each  mail  from  Europe  the  most 

delightful  letters; 
Tell  you  of  all  we  've  done  and  seen,  at  party, 

ball,  or  play, 
To  cheer  your  hearts,  poor  martyrs,  to  cotton 

and  C.  S.  A." 

So  the  two  vessels  parted;  the  San  Jacinto 

went 

To  unload  her  precious  cargo,  while  the  cap 
tain  of  the  Trent, 
Having  lost  a  (probable)  douceur  which  had 

seemed  within  his  grip, 
We  presume,  for  consolation,  retired  and  took 

a  nip. 
The  ladies  talked  of  the  affair  less  with  a  tear 

than  smile; 
Their  lords  and  masters  took  their  way  to 

Warren's  Fort  the  while; 
And  gratis  lodged  and  boarded  there,  they 

may  think  for  many  a  day 
That  brains  are  sometimes  northward  found 

as  well's  in  C.  S.  A. 


The  prisoners  were  taken  to  Fort  Warren,  in 
Boston  harbor,  and  the  North  went  wild  with 
delight.  It  was  understood  that  Great  Britain 
would  have  to  be  reckoned  with,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  care.  Wilkes  was  complimented  and 
banquetted  and  lionized,  and  the  House  of  Repre 
sentatives  gave  him  a  vote  of  thanks. 


DEATH  OF  THE  LINCOLN 
DESPOTISM 

'T  WAS  out  upon    mid  ocean  that  the  San 

Jacinto  hailed 
An  English  neutral  vessel,  while  on  her  course 

she  sailed; 
They  sent  her  traitor  Fairfax,  to  board  her 

with  his  crew, 
And    beard    the    "British    lion"    with    his 

"  Yankee-doodle-doo." 
The  Yankees  took  her  passengers,  and  put 

them  on  their  ship, 


430 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  swore  that  base  secession  could  not  give 
them  the  slip; 

But  England  says  she'll  have  them,  if  Wash 
ington  must  fall, 

So  Lincoln  and  his  "nigger  craft"  must  cer 
tainly  feel  small. 

Of  all  the  "Yankee  notions"  that  ever  had 

their  birth, 
The  one  of  searching  neutrals  affords  the 

greatest  mirth  — 
To  the  Southrons;  but  the  Yankees  will  ever 

hate  the  fame 
Which  gives  to  Wilkes  and    Fairfax    their 

never-dying  name. 
Throughout  the  North  their  Captain  Wilkes 

received  his  meed  of  praise, 
For  doing  —  in  these  civilized  —  the  deeds 

of  darker  days; 
But  England's  guns  will  thunder  along  the 

Yankee  coast, 
And   show  the  abolitionists   too  soon  they 

made  their  boast. 


Then  while  Old  England's  cannon  are  boom 
ing  on  the  sea, 
Our  Johnson,  Smith,  and  Beauregard  dear 

Maryland  will  free, 
And  Johnston  in  Kentucky  will    whip    the 

Yankees  too, 
And  start  them  to  the  lively  tune  of  "  Yankee- 

doodle-doo." 
Then  down  at  Pensacola,  where  the  game  is 

always  "Bragg," 
The  "Stars  and  Stripes"  will  be  pulled  down 

and  in  the  dust  be  dragged; 
For  Pickens  can't  withstand  us  when  Brax- 

ton  is  the  cry, 
And  there  you'll  see  the  Yankees,  with  their 

usual  speed,  will  fly. 

On  the  coast  of  Dixie's  kingdom  there  are 
batteries  made  by  Lee, 

And  covered  up  with  cotton,  which  the  Yan 
kees  want  to  see; 

But  when  they  go  to  take  it,  they'll  find  it 
will  not  do, 

And  start  upon  the  "double-quick"  to 
"  Yankee-doodle-doo." 

Then  Evans  and  his  cavalry  will  follow  in 
their  track, 

And  drive  them  in  the  Atlantic,  or  safely 
bring  them  back, 


And  hold  them  till  Abe  Lincoln  and  all  his 

Northern  scum 
Shall    own    our    independence  of  "Yankee- 

Doodledom." 
Richmond  Dispatch. 


News  of  the  seizure  reached  England  November 
27,  1861.  A  cabinet  meeting  was  at  once  held, 
the  act  of  Captain  Wilkes  was  declared  to  be  "  a 
clear  violation  of  the  law  of  nations,"  the  release 
of  Mason  and  Slidell  was  demanded ,  together  with 
a  suitable  apology  for  the  aggression.  England 
began  to  make  extensive  nava'  preparations,  and 
eight  thousand  troops  were  sent  to  Canada. 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

[December,  1861] 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
'The  Lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me ! " 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons: 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
There's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
'By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  I  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
'Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win  —  ditto  tails  ? 
'J.  B."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
(I'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he, 


JONATHAN  TO    JOHN 


"Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  'n  with  you  or  me!" 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss,  — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Though  physic  's  good,"  sez  he, 
"It  does  n't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  'J.  B.,' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me." 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John: 

You  mus'n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It's  jest  your  own  back  yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
Ef  thet 's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"The  fencin '-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 

You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John, 

But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  f 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
He's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he: 
"When  all  is  done,  it's  number  one 
Thet's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  t'  you  an'  me ! " 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right ; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"To  hoe  jest  now;  but  thet,  somehow, 
May  happen  to  J.  B.. 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me ! " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 
An'  it's  fer  her  sake,  now, 


They've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  't  warn't  fer  law,"  sez  he, 
"  There  'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to  Indy; 
An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When 't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me !) " 

We  know  we've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet's  honest,  just,  an'  true; 
We  thought  't  would  win  applause,  John, 
If  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
'  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton : 
There's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  in  you  an'  me ! " 

The  South  says,  "Poor  folks  doum!"  John, 

An'  "All  men  up  /"  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John: 
Now  which  is  your  idee? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he; 
'But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 
Why,  there's  the  old  J.  B. 
A-crowdin'  you  an'  me!" 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John? 

It's  you  thet's  to  decide; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
'  But  not  forgit ;  an'  some  time  yit 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea. 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  wuth  o'  bein'  free. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he; 
'But  nothin*  else  than  wut  he  sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  larn,  like  you  an'  me!" 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


England  was  clearly  in  the  right  in  her  conten 
tion;  Wilkes's  act  was  disavowed,  and  Mason  and 
Slidell  were  delivered  to  an  English  steamer  at 
Provincetown.  All  danger  of  war  with  England 
was  for  the  time  being  avoided. 


432 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A   NEW   SONG   TO   AN   OLD   TUNE 

JOHN  BULL,  ESQUIRE,  my  jo  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
You  acted  very  much  as  now 

You  act  about  the  Trent. 
You  stole  my  bonny  sailors,  John, 

My  bonny  ships  also, 
You  're  aye  the  same  fierce  beast  to  me, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo! 


John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

Since  we  were  linked  together, 
Full  many  a  jolly  fight,  John, 

We've  had  with  one  another. 
Now  must  we  fight  again,  John  ? 

Then  at  it  let  us  go! 
And  God  will  help  the  honest  heart, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 
A  century  has  gone  by, 


Since  you  called  me  your  slave,  John, 

Since  I  at  you  let  fly. 
You  want  to  fight  it  out  again  — 

That  war  of  waste  and  woe; 
You'll  find  me  much  the  same  old  coon, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

If  lying  loons  have  told 
That  I  have  lost  my  pluck,  John, 

And  fight  not  as  of  old ; 
You'd  better  not  believe  it,  John, 

Nor  scorn  your  ancient  foe; 
For  1  've  seen  weaker  days  than  this, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

Hear  this  my  language  plain: 
I  never  smote  you  unprovoked, 

I  never  smote  in  vain. 
If  you  want  peace,  peace  let  it  be ! 

If  war,  be  pleased  to  know. 
Shots  in  my  locker  yet  remain, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo! 


CHAPTER   IV 


THE  GRAND  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC 


The  defeat  at  Bull  Run  showed  the  necessity 
for  a  thorough  reorganization  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac,  and  George  B.  McClellan,  who  had 
made  a  successful  campaign  in  Western  Virginia, 
was  summoned  to  Washington  and  placed  in  com 
mand.  At  the  end  of  two  months,  he  had  under 
him  a  splendidly  equipped  and  disciplined  force  of 
over  a  hundred  thousand  men.  The  pickets  were 
gradually  extended,  and  little  skirmishes  with 
the  enemy  took  place  almost  daily. 


CIVIL  WAR 

"RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 
Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vi- 
dette; 

Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet!" 

"  Ah,  captain !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 
There's  music  around  when  my  barrel 's  in 

tune ! " 

Crack!  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 
And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing 
dragoon. 


"Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and 

snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel 

first  blood; 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 
That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond 
stud!" 

"O  captain!  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my 

track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vi- 

dette, 
For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his 

back, 

That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters 
me  yet. 

"But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket,  —  this  locket 

of  gold ; 
An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its 

way, 

Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  be 
hold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 


TARDY  GEORGE 


433 


"Ha!  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket! — 'tis 

she, 
My  brother's  young  bride,  and  the  fallen 

dragoon 
Was  her    husband  —  Hush !   soldier,  't  was 

Heaven's  decree, 

We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon! 

"But,  hark!  the  far  bugles  their  warnings 

unite ; 

War  is  a  virtue,  —  weakness  a  sin ; 
There's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to 
night  ; 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in!" 
CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLY. 


McClellan  at  last  began  preparations  for  a  grand 
advance  into  Virginia,  troops  were  sent  across 
the  Potomac  in  great  numbers  —  then,  suddenly, 
the  orders  were  countermanded  and  the  troops 
brought  back  across  the  river.  The  army  had 
increased  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men, 
but  for  nearly  two  months  the  public  ear  was 
daily  irritated  by  the  report,  "  All  quiet  along  the 
Potomac." 


THE  PICKET-GUARD 

[November,  1861] 

"ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing:  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn 
moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping, 
While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering 
eyes, 

Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's 
tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 


His  musket  falls  slack;  his  face,  dark  and 

grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a   prayer   for   the   children 

asleep  — 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend 
her! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as 
then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured 
vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 
,  He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree; 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  bffead  belt 

of  light, 

Towards  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the 

leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  .  .  .  "Ha!  Mary,  good- 

by!" 
The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night  — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river, 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the 

dead  — 
The  picket's  off  duty  forever! 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 

Despite  the  size  and  efficiency  of  the  "  Grand 
Army,"  nothing  was  done  and  nothing  attempted. 
It  was  evident  that  McClellan,  though  a  perfect 
organizer  and  disciplinarian,  lacked  the  qualities 
of  aggressive  leadership,  and  the  discontent  of  the 
country  found  constant  and  angry  expression. 

TARDY  GEORGE 

[January,  1862] 

WHAT  are  you  waiting  for,  George,  I  pray  ? 

To  scour  your  cross-belts  with  fresh  pipe 
clay  ? 

To  burnish  your  buttons,  to  brighten  your 
guns; 

Or  wait  you  for  May-day  and  warm  spring 
suns? 


434 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Are  you  blowing  your  fingers  because  they  are 

cold, 

Or  catching  your  breath  ere  you  take  a  hold  ? 
Is  the  mud  knee-deep  in  valley  and  gorge? 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Want  you  a  thousand  more  cannon  made, 
To  add  to  the  thousand  now  arrayed  ? 
Want  you  more  men,  more  money  to  pay? 
Are  not  two  millions  enough  per  day  ? 
Wait  you  for  gold  and  credit  to  go. 
Before  we  shall  see  your  martial  show; 
Till  Treasury  Notes  will  not  pay  to  forge? 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Are  you  waiting  for  your  hair  to  turn, 
Your  heart  to  soften,  your  bowels  to  yearn 
A  little  more  toward  "our  Southern  friends," 
As  at   home   and   abroad   they  work   their 

ends? 
"Our  Southern  friends!"  whom  you  hold  so 

dear 

That  you  do  no  harm  and  give  no  fear, 
As  you  tenderly  take  them  by  the  gorge  — 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Now  that  you  've  marshalled  your  whole  com 
mand, 

Planned  what  you  would,  and  changed  what 
you  planned; 

Practised  with  shot  and  practised  with  shell, 

Know  to  a  hair  where  every  one  fell. 

Made  signs  by  day  and  signals  by  night; 

Was  it  all  done  to  keep  out  of  a  fight  ? 

Is  the  whole  matter  too  heavy  a  charge  ? 

What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Shall  we  have  more  speeches,  more  re 
views? 

Or  are  you  waiting  to  hear  the  news; 
To  hold  up  your  hands  in  mute  surprise. 
When  France  and  England  shall  "recognize "  ? 
Are  you  too  grand  to  fight  traitors  small  ? 
Must  you  have  a  nation  to  cope  withal  ? 
Well,  hammer  the  anvil  and  blow  the  forge  — 
You'll  soon  have  a  dozen,  tardy  George. 

Suppose  for  a  moment,  George,  my  friend  — 
Just  for  a  moment  —  you  condescend 
To  use  the  means  that  are  in  your  hands, 
The  eager  muskets  and  guns  and  brands; 
Take  one  bold  step  on  the  Southern  sod, 
And  leave  the  issue  to  watchful  God! 
For  now  the  nation  raises  its  gorge, 
Waiting  and  watching  you,  tardy  George. 


I   should    not    much   wonder,    George,    my 

boy, 

If  Stanton  get  in  his  head  a  toy, 
And  some  fine  morning,  ere  you  are  out, 
He  send  you  all  "  to  the  right  about "  — 
You  and  Jomini,  and  all  the  crew 
Who  think  that  war  is  nothing  to  do 
But  to  drill  and  cypher,  and  hammer  and 

forge  — 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Finally,  President  Lincoln  demanded  that  this 
great  army  do  something,  and  it  was  decided  to 
advance  again  against  the  Confederates  at  Ma- 
nassas.  The  advance  began  on  March  9,  1862,  and 
when  the  army  reached  Manassas,  it  found  that 
the  Confederates  had  removed  all  their  stores  and 
munitions  and  abandoned  the  position.  Whereupon 
the  Grand  Army  marched  back  to  the  Potomac. 

HOW.MCCLELLAN  TOOK  MANASSAS 

[March  10,  1862] 

HEAKD  ye  how  the  bold  McClellan, 
He,  the  wether  with  the  bell  on; 
He,  the  head  of  all  the  asses  — 
Heard  ye  how  he  took  Manassas? 

When  the  Anaconda  plucky 
Flopped  its  tail  in  old  Kentucky; 
When  up  stream  the  gunboats  paddled, 
And  the  thieving  Floyd  skedaddled, 
Then  the  chief  of  all  the  asses 
Heard  the  word:   Go,  take  Manassas! 

Forty  brigades  wait  around  him, 
Forty  blatant  trumpets  sound  him, 
As  the  pink  of  all  the  heroes 
Since  the  time  of  fiddling  Neros. 
"Now's  the  time,"  cry  out  the  masses, 
"Show  your  pluck  and  take  Manassas!" 

Contrabands  come  flocking  to  him : 
"  Lo !   the  enemy  flies  —  pursue  him ! " 
"No,"  says  George,  "don't  start  a  trigger 

On  the  word  of  any  nigger; 

Let  no  more  of  the  rascals  pass  us, 

/  know  all  about  Manassas." 

When  at  last  a  prowling  Yankee  — 
No  doubt  long,  and  lean,  and  lanky  — 
Looking  out  for  new  devices, 
Took  the  wooden  guns  as  prizes, 
Says  he:   ''I  sweow,  ere  daylight  passes 
I  '11  take  a  peep  at  famed  Manassas." 


WANTED  — A  MAN 


435 


Then  up  to  the  trenches  boldly 
Marched  he  —  they  received  him  coldly ; 
Nary  reb  was  there  to  stop  him. 
Gathering  courage,  in  he  passes: 
"Jerusalem!  I've  took  Manassas." 

Bold  McClellan  heard  the  story: 
"Onward,  men,  to  fields  of  glory; 
Let  us  show  the  rebel  foemen. 
When  we're  READY  we're  not  slow,  men; 
Wait  no  more  for  springing  grasses  — 
Onward !  onward !   to  Manassas !  " 

Baggage  trains  were  left  behind  him, 
In  his  eagerness  to  find  them  ; 
Upward  the  balloons  ascended, 
To  see  which  way  the  rebels  trended; 
Thirty  miles  away  his  glasses 
Swept  the  horizon  round  Manassas. 

Out  of  sight,  the  foe,  retreating, 
Answered  back  no  hostile  greeting; 
None  could  tell,  as  off  he  paddled, 
Whitherward  he  had  skedaddled. 
Then  the  chief  of  all  the  asses 
Cried:   "Hurrah!   I've  got  Manassas." 

Future  days  will  tell  the  wonder, 
How  the  mighty  Anaconda 
Lay  supine  along  the  border, 
With  the  mighty  Mac  to  lord  her: 
Tell  on  shaft  and  storied  brasses 
How  he  took  the  famed  Manassas. 


McClellan,  meanwhile,  had  decided  that  the 
proper  way  to  take  Richmond  was  to  remove  his 
army  to  Fortress  Monroe  and  advance  up  the 
peninsula.  The  change  of  base  was  accomplished 
by  April  3,  1862,  and  the  advance  began,  the  army 
encountering  no  obstacle  save  almost  impassable 
mud.  McClellan,  however,  firmly  believed  that 
an  immense  force  of  Confederates  was  massed 
before  him  and  proceeded  so  cautiously  that  he 
scarcely  moved  at  all,  and  the  impatience  of  the 
people  deepened  into  anger  and  disgust. 

WANTED  — A  MAN 

BACK  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field 

Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 

Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 

Hark  to  their  echo,  as  it  crost 
The  Capital,  making  faces  wan: 

"End  this  murderous  holocaust; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 


"Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician's  pen; 

Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten, 
Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan ; 

Give  us  a  rallying-cry,  and  then, 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 
Till    they   fall   like  ghosts  in  the   marshes 
low, 

And    swamp-grass  covers   each   nameless 
grave ; 

Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 
Aye  in  Disaster's  shameful  van; 

Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave;  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 

While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 
Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth  — 

Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 
Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 

Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN! 

"Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  ones  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ? 

What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 
In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran, 

From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Oh,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 

Where  the  foeman's  fiercest  columns  are! 
Oh,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 

Cheering  for  every  sacred  star! 

His  to  marshal  us  high  and  far ; 
Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 

When  a  Hero  leads  the  Holy  War !  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! " 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

Finally,  after  infinite  preparation,  McClellan's 
batteries  were  ready  to  open  on  the  Confederate 
works  at  Yorktown,  but  on  May  4,  1862,  it  was 
discovered  that  the  works  had  been  abandoned. 
Hooker's  and  Kearny's  cavalry  began  a  vigorous 
pursuit  of  the  Confederates,  caught  up  with  them 
at  Williamsburg  and  captured  the  works  there, 
after  a  severe  engagement. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE   GALLANT  FIGHTING  "JOE" 

[May  4,  .5,  1862] 

FROM  Yorktown  on  the  fourth  of  May 

The  rebels  did  skedaddle, 
And  to  pursue  them  on  their  way 
Brave  Hooker  took  the  saddle. 
"I'll  lead  you  on,  brave  boys,"  he  said, 

"Where  danger  points  the  way;" 
And  drawing  forth  his  shining  blade, 

"  Move  onward ! "  he  did  say. 
Chorus  —  Then   we'll   shout    hurrah   for 

Hooker,  boys, 
The  gallant  fighting  Joe; 
We'll  follow  him  with  heart  and 

hand, 
Wherever  he  does  go. 

"Forward,  March!"  then  was  the  word 

That  passed  from  front  to  rear, 
When  all  the  men  with  one  accord 

Gave  a  loud  and  hearty  cheer. 
And  then  with  Hooker  at  our  head, 

We  marched  in  order  good, 
Till  darkness  all  around  us  spread, 

When  we  lay  down  in  the  wood. 

Early  next  morn  by  break  of  day, 

The  ram  in  torrents  fell; 
"This  day,"  brave  Hooker  he  did  say, 

"Your  valor  it  will  tell. 
Williamsburg  is  very  near, 

Be  steady  every  man, 
Let  every  heart  be  filled  with  cheer, 

And  I  will  take  the  van." 

The  gallant  Massachusetts  men 

Fought  well  and  nobly,  too, 
As  did  the  men  from  good  old  Penn. , 

And  Jersey,  ever  true, 
And  Sickles'  men  like  lions  brave, 

Their  courage  did  display, 
For  gallantly  they  did  behave 

On  the  battle-field  that  day. 

The  men  from  Mass,  and  good  old  Penn. 

That  morn  the  fight  began, 
And  like  true,  noble-hearted  men, 

Most  nobly  they  did  stand. 
When  Jersey's  sons,  the  bold,  the  brave, 

Not  fearing  lead  nor  steel, 
Their  gallant  comrades  for  to  save, 

Dashed  boldly  to  the  field. 


By  every  means  the  rebels  sought 

To  stand  the  Jerseys'  fire, 
But  soon  for  them  it  was  too  hot, 

And  they  quickly  did  retire. 
But  getting  reenforced  again 

With  numbers  very  great. 
The  gallant  band  of  Jerseymen 

Were  forced  for  to  retreat. 

'Now,  Sickles'  men,"  Hooker  did  say, 

"Move  out  to  the  advance; 
If  you  your  courage  would  display, 

Now  you  have  got  a  chance. 
The  foe  have  forced  us  to  give  way. 

They  number  six  to  one, 
But  still,  my  lads,  we'll  gain  the  day, 

And  I  will  lead  you  on." 

Excelsior  then  the  foremost  stood, 

Not  knowing  dread  nor  fear, 
And  met  the  rebels  in  the  woods, 

With  a  loud  and  hearty  cheer. 
Volley  after  volley  flew, 

Like  hail  the  balls  did  fly, 
And  Hooker  cried :   "  My  heroes  true, 

We'll  conquer  or  we'll  die." 

Our  ammunition  being  gone, 

Brave  Hooker  then  did  say: 
'  Reinforcements  fast  are  coming  on, 

My  lads,  do  not  give  way. 
Keep  good  your  ground,  our  only  chance 

Is  t'  remain  upon  the  field. 
And  if  the  rebels  dare  advance. 

We'll  meet  them  with  the  steel." 

'T  was  then  brave  Kearny  did  appear, 

Who  ne'er  to  foe  would  yield, 
To  him  we  gave  a  hearty  cheer, 

As  he  rushed  on  the  field. 
'Now,  charge!    my  lads,"   then   Hooket 

cried, 

"Our  work  will  soon  be  done, 
For  with  brave  Kearny  by  our  side. 
The  rebels  we'll  make  run." 

And  since  that  time  we  all  do  know 

The  battles  he  hath  won; 
He  beat  the  rebels  at  Bristow, 

And  chased  them  to  Bull  Run; 
And  had  we  a  few  more  loyal  men 

Like  the  gallant  fighting  "Joe," 
The  war  would  soon  be  at  an  end, 

Then  home  we  all  would  go. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  LATANE 


437 


Singing,  hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Hooker's 

boys. 

The  gallant  Fighting  Joe, 
We  '11  follow  him  with  heart  and  hand, 
Wherever  he  does  go. 

JAMES  STEVENSON. 


The  advance  continued  slowly,  and  on  May  31, 
1862,  a  portion  of  the  army  reached  Fair  Oaks. 
Here  the  Confederates  attacked  with  force,  and 
would  have  won  a  decisive  victory  but  for  the 
timely  arrival  of  dashing  "  Phil  "  Kearny,  who  ral 
lied  the  Union  forces,  led  them  forward,  and  swept 
*he  Confederates  from  the  field. 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 

[May  31,  1862] 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not   to 

yield ! 
'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce 

Berry,  and  Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where   the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the 

clamor  rose  highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the 

dwarf  oak  and  pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest 

and  nighest, — 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the 
whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest 

were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still 

held  our  ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering 

column, 
And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with 

a  bound; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the 

powder,  — 
His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered 

the  sign; 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh 

rang  the  louder. 

"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along 
the  whole  line!" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed!    How  we 

saw  his  blade  brighten 
In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins 
in  his  teeth! 


He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays 

heighten, 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor 

beneath. 

Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 
Asking   where    to   go    in,  —  through    the 

clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  Oh,  anywhere !  Forward !  'T  is  all  the  same, 

Colonel : 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole 
line ! " 

Oh,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chan- 

tilly, 
That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men 

and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the 

white  lily, 
The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole 

army's  pride! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy 

region 
Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at   the 

wan  drummer's  sign,  — 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his 

legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  "Forward!"  along 
the  whole  line. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


For  nearly  a  month  after  this  battle,  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  lay  along  the  Chickahominy.  within 
a  few  miles  of  Richmond,  while  the  Confederates 
concentrated  their  forces,  under  Robert  E.  Lee,  for 
the  defence  of  the  city.  On  June  14, 1862,  General 
J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  with  a  force  of  fifteen  hundred  cav 
alry,  circled  the  Union  position,  destroyed  stores, 
seized  mules  and  horses,  took  nearly  two  hun 
dred  prisoners,  and  returned  leisurely  to  Rich 
mond.  Captain  Latane'  was  killed  in  a  skirmish 
during  this  expedition. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE 

[June  14,  1862] 

THE  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day; 
And,  through  the  hosts  that   compassed  us 

around, 

Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 
Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain  — 
Single  of  all  his  men,  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood  — • 
Hope's  halo,  like  a  helmet,  round  his  hair; 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  next  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 

Prostrate  in  death  —  and  yet,  in  death  how 
fair! 

Even  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gates  of 
strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms,  to  an  im 
mortal  life. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 
And  gave  it  unto  strangers'  hands,  that  closed 
The  calm  blue  eyes  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed : 
Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who,  with  Mary's  love. 
Sat  by  the  open  tomb,  and,  weeping,  looked 
above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier  — 
Pale  roses,  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 
Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere. 
That  blossomed  with  good  actions  —  brief, 

but  whole; 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 
Approached   with  reverent  feet   the   hero's 

lowly  grave. 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rite 
Above  the  "rebel"  —  thus  declared  the  foe 
That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight; 
But  woman's  voice,  with  accents  soft  and 

low, 
Trembling  with  pity  —  touched  with  pathos 

—  read 
Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

"'Tis  sown   in  weakness,   it   is  raised   in 

power ! " 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
While  the  low  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 
Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer. 
Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and 

his  God! 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him,  whose  deeds  endure ! 
So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful!   He  died 
As  he  had  wished  to  die ;  the  past  is  sure ; 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 
Those  who  still  linger  by  the  stormy  shore, 
Change  cannot   harm  him  now,  nor  fortune 
touch  him  more. 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


Meanwhile,  McDowell's  corps  had  been  ordered 
forward  from  the  Shenandoah  valley  to  cooperate 
with  McClellan,  but  was  harassed  by  the  Confed 


erate  cavalry  under  Turner  Ashby  and  Stonewall 
Jackson,  which  was  handled  with  the  utmost  bril 
liancy  and  daring. 


THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD 

EIGHTY  and  nine  with  their  captain 

Rode  on  the  enemy's  track, 
Rode  in  the  gray  of  the  morning: 

Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 

Slow  rose  the  mist  from  the  river, 
Lighter  each  moment  the  way: 

Careless  and  tearless  and  fearless 
Galloped  they  on  to  the  fray. 

Singing  in  tune,  how  the  scabbards 
Loud  on  the  stirrup-irons  rang, 

Clinked  as  the  men  rose  in  saddle, 
Fell  as  they  sank  with  a  clang. 

What  is  it  moves  by  the  river, 

Jaded  and  weary  and  weak. 
Gray-backs  —  a  cross  on  their  banner  — 

Yonder  the  foe  whom  they  seek. 

Silence !   They  see  not,  they  hear  not, 
Tarrying  there  by  the  marge: 

Forward  !  Draw  sabre  I   Trot  !  Gallop  I 
Charge  I  like  a  hurricane,  charge  I 

Ah !  't  was  a  man-trap  infernal  — 
Fire  like  the  deep  pit  of  hell ! 

Volley  on  volley  to  meet  them, 
Mixed  with  the  gray  rebel's  yell. 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle. 
Tracing  the  enemy's  track,  — 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle, 
Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 

Honor  the  name  of  the  ninety; 

Honor  the  heroes  who  came 
Scatheless  from  five  hundred  musketa, 

Safe  from  the  lead-bearing  flame. 

Eighty  and  one  of  the  troopers 
Lie  on  the  field  of  the  slain  — 

Lie  on  the  red  field  of  honor: 
Honor  the  nine  who  remain  ! 

Cold  are  the  dead  there,  and  gory, 
There  where  their  life-blood  was  spilt 

Back  come  the  living,  each  sabre 
Red  from  the  point  to  the  hilt. 


MALVERN   HILL 


439 


Give  them  three  cheers  and  a  tiger! 

Let  the  flags  wave  as  they  come! 
Give  them  the  blare  of  the  trumpet ! 

Give  them  the  roll  of  the  drum! 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

Skirmish  after  skirmish  was  fought,  in  one  of 
which,  at  Harrisonburg,  on  June  6,  1862.  Ashby 
was  killed.  But  the  Confederates  succeeded  in 
their  object,  for  McDowell's  junction  with  McClel- 
lan  was  indefinitely  delayed. 

DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY 

[June  6,  1862] 

HEARD  ye  that  thrilling  word  — 

Accent  of  dread  — 
Flash  like  a  thunderbolt. 

Bowing  each  head,  — 
Crash  through  the  battle  dun, 
Over  the  booming  gun,  — 
"Askby,  our  bravest  one, — 

Ashby  is  dead  I " 

Saw  ye  the  veterans  — 

Hearts  that  had  known 
Never  a  quail  of  fear, 

Never  a  groan,  — 
Sob  'mid  the  fight  t^iey  win,  — 
Tears  their  stern  eyes  within,  — 
"Ashby,  our  Paladin, 

Ashby  is  gone ! " 

Dash  —  dash  the  tear  away,  — 

Crush  down  the  pain! 
"Dulce  et  decus"  be 

Fittest  refrain! 
Why  should  the  dreary  pall 
Round  him  be  flung  at  all  ? 
Did  not  our  hero  fall 

Gallantly  slain  ? 

Catch  the  last  word  of  cheer 

Dropt  from  his  tongue; 
Over  the  volley's  din, 

Loud  be  it  rung,  — 
"Follow  me  !  follow  me  !"  — 
Soldier,  oh!  could  there  be 
Psean  or  dirge  for  thee 

Loftier  sung! 

Bold  as  the  Lion-heart, 

Dauntless  and  brave; 
Knightly  as  knightliest 

Bayard  could  crave; 


Sweet  with  all  Sidney's  grace, 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face;  — 
Who  —  who  shall  fill  the  space 
Void  by  his  grave? 

'T  is  not  one  broken  heart, 

Wild  with  dismay; 
Crazed  with  her  agony, 

Weeps  o'er  his  clay: 
Ah!  from  a  thousand  eyes 
Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise; 
Widowed  Virginia  lies 

Stricken  to-day! 

Yet  though  that  thrilling  word  — 

Accent  of  dread  — 
Falls  like  a  thunderbolt. 

Bowing  each  head,  — 
Heroes!  be  battle  done 
Bravelier  every  one, 
Nerved  by  the  thought  alone  — 

Ashby  is  dead  ! 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


McClellan  continued  to  waste  his  time  in  com 
plaints  and  reproaches  to  the  government  at 
Washington,  and  the  Confederates  prepared  to 
take  the  offensive.  Their  advance  began  June  26, 
1862,  and  McClellan  promptly  began  to  retreat. 
Finally,  on  July  1,  at  Malvern  Hill,  the  Union 
army  turned  and  repulsed  the  Confederates,  after 
a  severe  engagement.  McClellan,  instead  of  ad 
vancing,  issued  an  order  to  "  fall  still  farther  back." 


MALVERN  HILL 

[July  1,  1862] 

YE  elms  that  wave  on  Malvern  Hill 

In  prime  of  morn  and  May, 
Recall  ye  how  McClellan's  men 

Here  stood  at  bay  ? 
While  deep  within  yon  forest  dim 

Our  rigid  comrades  lay  — 
Some  with  the  cartridge  in  their  mouth, 
Others  with  fixed  arms  lifted  South  — 

Invoking  so 
The  cypress  glades?  Ah  wilds  of  woe! 

The  spires  of  Richmond,  late  beheld 
Through  rifts  in  musket-haze, 

Were  closed  from  view  in  clouds  of  dust 
On  leaf -walled  ways, 

Where  streamed  our  wagons  in  caravan; 
And  the  Seven  Nights  and  Days 


440 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Of  march  and  fast,  retreat  and  fight, 
Pinched  our  grimed  faces  to  ghastly  plight  - 

Does  the  elm  wood 
Recall  the  haggard  beards  of  blood  ? 

The  battle-smoked  flag,  with  stars  eclipsed, 

We  followed  (it  never  fell !)  — 
In  silence  husbanded  our  strength  — 

Received  their  yell ; 
Till  on  this  slope  we  patient  turned 

With  cannon  ordered  well; 
Reverse  we  proved  was  not  defeat; 
But  ah,  the  sod  what  thousands  meet !  — 

Does  Malvern  Wood 
Bethink  itself,  and  muse  and  brood  ? 

We  elms  of  Malvern  Hill 

Remember  everything ; 
But  sap  the  twig  will  fill: 
Wag  the  world  how  it  will, 

Leaves  must  be  green  in  Spring. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


A  MESSAGE 

[July  1,  1882] 

WAS  there  ever  message  sweeter 

Than  that  one  from  Malvern  Hill, 
From  a  grim  old  fellow,  —  you  remember  ? 

Dying  in  the  dark  at  Malvern  Hill. 
With  his  rough  face  turned  a  little, 

On  a  heap  of  scarlet  sand, 
They  found  him,  just  within  the  thicket, 

With  a  picture  in  his  hand,  — 

With  a  stained  and  crumpled  picture 

Of  a  woman's  aged  face; 
Yet  there  seemed  to  leap  a  wild  entreaty, 

Young    and    living  —  tender  —  from    the 

face 
When  they  flashed  a  lantern  on  it, 

Gilding  all  the  purple  shade, 
And  stooped  to  raise  him  softly,  — 

"That's  my  mother,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Tell  her"  —  but  he  wandered,  slipping 

Into  tangled  words  and  cries,  — 
Something  about  Mac  and  Hooker, 

Something  dropping  through  the  cries 
About  the  kitten  by  the  fire, 

And  mother's  cranberry-pies;  and  there 
The  words  fell,  and  an  utter 

Silence  brooded  in  the  air. 


Just  as  he  was  drifting  from  them, 

Out  into  the  dark,  alone 
(Poor  old   mother,   waiting  for    your   mes 
sage, 

Waiting  with  the  kitten,  all  alone !), 
Through  the  hush  his  voice  broke,  —  "Tell 
her  — 

Thank  you,  Doctor  —  when  you  can,  — 
Tell  her  that  I  kissed  her  picture, 

And  wished  I'd  been  a  better  man." 

Ah,  I  wonder  if  the  red  feet 

Of  departed  battle-hours 
May  not  leave  for  us  their  searching 

Message  from  those  distant  hours. 
Sisters,  daughters,  mothers,  think  you, 

Would  your  heroes  now  or  then, 
Dying,  kiss  your  pictured  faces, 

Wishing  they'd  been  better  men? 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS. 


So  ended  McClellan's  attempt  to  capture  Rich 
mond.  He  had  lost  seventy-five  thousand  men 
and  had  accomplished  nothing.  President  Lincoln 
made  a  personal  visit  to  inspect  the  army,  then 
issued  a  call  for  three  hundred  thousand  more 
troops. 


THREE   HUNDRED  THOUSAND 
MORE 

[July  2,  1862] 

WE  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three 
hundred  thousand  more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from 
New  England's  shore; 

We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our 
wives  and  children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a 
silent  tear; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly 
before: 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hun 
dred  thousand  more! 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the 

northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision 

may  descry/ 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the 

cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and 

in  pride, 


OUR  LEFT 


And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands 
brave  music  pour: 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hun 
dred  thousand  more! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  grow 
ing  harvests  shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast 
forming  into  line; 

And  children  from  their  mother's  knees  are 
pulling  at  the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against 
their  country's  needj^- — 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every 
cottage  door: 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hun 
dred  thousand  more! 

You  have  called  us^and  we're  coming,  by 

Richmond's  moody  tide 
To  lay  us  downv  for  Freedom's  sake,  our 

brothers'  bones  beside, 
Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench 

the  murderous  blade, 
And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments 

to  parade. 
Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true 

have  gone  before/ 
We  are  comings/Father  Abraham,  three. hun- 

djred  thousand  morel— 

JAMES  SLOAN  GIBBONS. 


Meanwhile  the  Army  of  Virginia  had  been 
formed  for  the  defence  of  Washington,  and  placed 
under  the  command  of  General  Pope.  He  at  once 
endeavored  to  secure  the  valley  of  the  Shenan- 
doah,  and  on  August  9,  1862,  fought  a  fierce  but 
indecisive  battle  with  Jackson  at  Cedar  Mountain. 

CEDAR  MOUNTAIN 

[August  9,  1862] 

RING  the  bells,  nor  ring  them  slowly; 
Toll  them  not,  —  the  day  is  holy ! 
Golden-flooded  noon  is  poured 
In  grand  libation  to  the  Lord. 

No  mourning  mothers  come  to-day 
Whose  hopeless  eyes  forget  to  pray: 
They  each  hold  high  the  o'erflowing  urn, 
And  bravely  to  the  altar  turn. 

Ye  limners  of  the  ancient  saint! 
To-day  another  virgin  paint; 


Where  with  the  lily  once  she  stood 
Show  now  the  new  beatitude. 

To-day  a  mother  crowned  with  pain, 
Of  silver  beauty  beyond  stain, 
Clasping  a  flower  for  our  land 
A-sheathed  in  her  hand. 

Each  pointed  leaf  with  sword-like  strength, 
Guarding  the  flower  throughout  its  length; 
Each  sword  has  won  a  sweet  release 
To  the  flower  of  beauty  and  of  peace. 

Ring  the  bells,  nor  ring  them  slowly, 
To  the  Lord  the  day  is  holy; 
To  the  young  dead  we  consecrate 
These  lives  that  now  we  dedicate. 

ANNIE  FIELDS. 


Lee's  army,  released  from  Richmond  by 
McClellan's  retreat,  hastened  to  face  Pope,  while 
Jackson  got  in  Pope's  rear,  captured  Manassas 
Junction,  cut  Pope's  communications,  formed  a 
junction  with  Longstreet,  and  on  August  30,  1862, 
defeated  the  Union  forces  at  the  second  battle  of 
Bull  Run. 

"OUR  LEFT" 

[August  30,  1862] 

FROM  dawn  to  dark  they  stood 
That  long  midsummer  day, 
While  fierce  and  fast 
The  battle  blast 
Swept  rank  on  rank  away. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  fought, 
With  legions  torn  and  cleft; 

And  still  the  wide 

Black  battle  tide 
Poured  deadlier  on  "Our  Left." 

The}'  closed  each  ghastly  gap; 

They  dressed  each  shattered  rank; 

They  knew  —  how  well  — 

That  freedom  fell 
With  that  exhausted  Sank. 

"Oh,  for  a  thousand  men 

Like  these  that  melt  away!" 
And  down  they  came, 
With  steel  and  flame, 
Four  thousand  to  the  fray! 


442 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning  path  they  cleft; 
And  triumph  came 
With  deathless  fame 
To  our  unconquered  "Left." 

Ye  of  your  sons  secure, 

Ye  of  your  dead  bereft  — 
Honor  the  brave 
Who  died  to  save 
Your  all  upon  "Our  Left." 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR. 


On  the  following  day,  Jackson  again  attacked 
at  Chantilly,  an  indecisive  action  lasting  all  day. 
During  the  battle,  General  Philip  Kearny  pushed 
forward  to  reconnoitre  and  came  upon  a  Con 
federate  outpost  which  summoned  him  to  sur 
render.  Instead,  he  clapped  spurs  to  his  horse  and 
endeavored  to  escape,  but  was  shot  and  killed. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

[September  1,  1862] 

CLOSE  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow! 
What  cares  he?   he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
\Vhat  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death-bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye; 
Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 


Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by: 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?   he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


Pope's  shattered  army  was  withdrawn  within 
the  defences  of  Washington,  where  McClellan'a 
forces  soon  joined  it.  The  latter  was  given  com 
mand  of  the  forces  at  the  capital,  and  recruits 
were  hurried  forward  to  fill  the  broken  ranks. 


THE  REVEILLE 

HARK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum ; 
Lo!   a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick-alarming  drum,  — 
Saying:  "Come, 
Freemen,  come! 

Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick- 
alarming  drum. 

"Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel: 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ? " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed:  "Come! 

Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said  the 
solemn-sounding  drum. 

"But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered:  "Come! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the 
Yankee-answering  drum. 

"What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 
Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered :  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united  than  in  life  a 
recreant,  —  Come ! " 

Thus  they  answered  —  hoping,  fearing, 
Some  in  faith  and  doubting  some, 


BEYOND   THE    POTOMAC 


443 


Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said:  "My  chosen  people,  come!" 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo!  was  dumb; 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing, 
answered:  "Lord,  we  come!" 

BRET  HARTE. 

Never  was  the  Republic  in  greater  danger.  A 
month  before,  Lee  had  been  desperately  defending 
Richmond  against  two  armies;  now  he  had  de 
feated  them  both  and  was  ready  to  invade  the 
North.  He  pushed  forward  with  decision  and 
celerity,  and  by  September  7, 1862,  his  whole  army 
had  crossed  the  Potomac  into  Maryland. 

BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC 

[September  7,  1862] 

THEY  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valor  had 

won, 

But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be 

done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  river. 

They  arose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life  from 

his  light,  — 

Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight, — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their 

might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  river. 

On!  on!  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through 
the  hills; 

On !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their 
wills; 

And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoy 
ant,  and  thrills. 
At  the  thought  of  the  river. 

Oh,  the  sheen  of  their  swords !  the  fierce  gleam 

of  their  eyes! 
It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would 

ri.se, 

And,  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  their  path  to  the  river. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and  all  dark 
ened  with  gore, 

On  a  strong  wind  of  morning  streamed  wildly 
before, 

Like  the  wings  of  death-angels  swept  fast  to 

the  shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  river. 


As  they  march,  from  the  hillside,  the  hamlet, 
the  stream, 

Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  foemen  had  man 
acled,  teem, 

Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible 

dream, 
To  cross  sternly  the  river. 

They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood-dark 
ened,  yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  kst  spell  of  de 
spair. 

While  a  peal,  as  of  victory,  swells  on  the  air. 
Rolling  out  to  the  river. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echo- 
ings,  spread, 

Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  were  thrilled  in  their 
bed, 

And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from 

the  dead, 
"  Ay,  press  on  to  the  river  I " 

On !  on !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the 
hills, 

On !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their 
wills. 

And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoy 
ant,  and  thrills, 
As  they  pause  by  the  river. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and 
worn. 

At  this  sight  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  for 
lorn, 

And  she  turned  on  the  foemen,  full-statured 

in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  river. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calmly,  scarce  heaving 

her  breast, 
With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in  the 

west, 
For  a  charm  as  from  God  lulled  the  waters  to 

rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  river. 

Passed!  passed!  the  glad  thousands  march 

safe  through  the  tide; 
Hark,  foeman,  and  bear  the  deep   knell  of 

your  pride. 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from 

the  side 
Of  the  calm -flowing  river! 


444 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'Neath  a  blow  swift  and   mighty  the  tyrant 

may  fall; 

Vain !  vain !  to  his  gods  swells  a  desolate  call ; 
Hath  his  grave  not  been  hollowed,  and  woven 

his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  river? 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


MeCIellan  undertook  a  timorous  and  blundering 
pursuit,  calling  constantly  for  more  men  and  even 
proposing  that  Washington  be  abandoned,  if  that 
should  be  necessary  to  reinforce  his  army.  On 
September  13,  1862,  Lee's  army  passed  through 
Frederick,  and  it  was  then  that  the  incident  re 
corded  in  "Barbara  Frietchie"  is  said  to  have 
occurred. 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE 

[September  13,  1862J 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall ; 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 


Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt ! "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire ! "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word; 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!    March  on!"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more, 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB. 


THE  VICTOR   OF  ANTIETAM 


445 


The  main  body  of  the  Confederates  was  finally 
encountered  at  Antietam,  and  on  September  17, 
1862,  a  savage  action  was  fought,  which  left  Lee 
badly  shattered. 

MARTHY  VIRGINIA'S  HAND 

[September  17,  1862] 

"THERE,   on  the  left!"    said    the   colonel; 

the  battle   had  shuddered  and  faded 

away, 
Wraith  of  a  fiery  enchantment  that  left  only 

ashes  and  blood-sprinkled  clay  — 
"Ride  to  the  left  and  examine  that  ridge, 

where     the     enemy's     sharpshooters 

stood. 
Lord,  how  they  picked  off  our  men,  from  the 

treacherous     vantage-ground    of    the 

wood! 
But  for  their  bullets,  I'll  bet,  my  batteries 

sent  them  something  as  good. 
Go  and  explore,  and  report  to  me  then,  and 

tell  me  how  many  we  killed. 
Never  a  wink  shall  I  sleep  till  I  know  our 

vengeance  was  duly  fulfilled." 

Fiercely  the  orderly  rode  down  the  slope  of  the 

cornfield  —  scarred  and  forlorn, 
Rutted  by  violent  wheels,  and  scathed  by  the 

shot  that  had  ploughed  it  in  scorn; 
Fiercely,   and    burning  with  wrath   for    the 

sight  of  his  comrades  crushed  at  a 

blow, 
Flung  in  broken  shapes  on  the  ground  like 

ruined  memorials  of  woe ; 
These  were  the  men  whom  at  daybreak  he 

knew,  but  never  again  could  know. 
Thence  to  the  ridge,  where  roots  out-thrust, 

and  twisted  branches  of  trees 
Clutched    the  hill   like  clawing  lions,  firm 

their  prey  to  seize. 

"What's  your  report?"  and  the  grim  colonel 
smiled  when  the  orderly  came  back  at 
last. 

Strangely  the  soldier  paused:  "Well,  they 
were  punished."  And  strangely  his 
face  looked,  aghast. 

"Yes,  our  fire  told  on  them;  knocked  over 
fifty  —  laid  out  in  line  of  parade. 

Brave  fellows.  Colonel,  to  stay  as  they 
did !  But  one  I  'most  wished  had  n't 
stayed. 

Mortally  wounded,  he'd  torn  off  his  knap 
sack  ;  and  then,  at  the  end,  he  prayed  — 


Easy  to  see,  by  his  hands  that  were  clasped; 

and  the  dull,  dead  fingers  yet  held 
This    little    letter  —  his    wife's  —  from    the 

knapsack.    A  pity  those  woods  were 

shelled!" 

Silent  the  orderly,  watching  with  tears  in  his 

eyes  as  his  officer  scanned 
Four  short  pages  of  writing.    "What's  this, 

about  'Marthy  Virginia's  hand'?" 
Swift  from  his  honeymoon  he,  the  dead  sol 
dier,  had  gone  from  his  bride  to  the 

strife; 
Never  they  met  again,  but  she  had  written 

him,  telling  of  that  new  life, 
Born  in  the  daughter,  that  bound  her  still 

closer  and  closer  to  him  as  his  wife. 
Laying  her  baby's  hand  down  on  the  letter, 

around  it  she  traced  a  rude  line: 
"If  you  would  kiss  the  baby,"  she  wrote, 

"  you  must  kiss  this  outline  of  mine." 

There  was  the  shape  of  the  hand  on  the  page, 
with  the  small,  chubby  fingers  out 
spread. 

"Marthy  Virginia's  hand,  for  her  pa,"  —  so 
the  words  on  the  little  palm  said. 

Never  a  wink  slept  the  colonel  that  night,  for 
the  vengeance  so  blindly  fulfilled. 

Never  again  woke  the  old  battle-glow  when 
the  bullets  their  death-note  shrilled. 

Long  ago  ended  the  struggle,  in  union  of  bro 
therhood  happily  stilled; 

Yet  from  that  field  of  Antietam,  in  warning 
and  token  of  love's  command, 

See!  there  is  lifted  the  hand  of  a  baby  — 
Marthy  Virginia's  hand! 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

It  was  McClellan's  first  victory,  and  his  parti 
sans  hailed  him  as  another  Alexander;  but  he  per 
mitted  a  great  opportunity  to  slip  through  his 
fingers.  Instead  of  attacking  next  day,  he  re 
mained  inactive,  and  Lee  made  good  his  escape 
across  the  Potomac. 

THE  VICTOR  OF  ANTIETAM 

[September  17,  1862] 

WHEN  tempest  winnowed  grain  from  bran, 
And  men  were  looking  for  a  man, 
Authority  called  you  to  the  van, 

McClellan! 
Along  the  line  the  plaudits  ran, 
As  later  when  Antietam's  cheers  began. 


446 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Through  storm-cloud  and  eclipse  must  move 
Each  cause  and  man,  dear  to  the  stars  and  Jove ; 
Nor  always  can  the  wisest  tell 
Deferred  fulfilment  from  the  hopeless  knell  — 
The  struggler  from  the  floundering  ne'er-do- 

welL 
A  pall-cloth  on  the  Seven  Days  fell 

McClellan  — 
Unprosperously  heroical! 
Who  could  Antietam's  wreath  foretell  ? 

Authority  called  you;  then,  in  mist 

And  loom  of  jeopardy  —  dismissed. 

But  staring  peril  soon  appalled ; 

You,  the  Discarded,  she  recalled  — 

Recalled  you,  nor  endured  delay; 

And  forth  you  rode  upon  a  blasted  way. 

Arrayed  Pope's  rout,  and  routed  Lee's  array, 

McClellan! 

Your  tent  was  choked  with  captured  flags 
that  day, 

McClellan. 
.\ntietam  was  a  telling  fray. 

Recalled  you ;  and  she  heard  your  drum 
Advancing  through  the  ghastly  gloom. 
You  manned  the  wall,  you  propped  the  Dome, 
You  stormed  the  powerful  stormer  home, 

McClellan! 
Antietam's  cannon  long  shall  boom. 

At  Alexandria,  left  alone, 

McClellan  — 

Your  veterans  sent  from  you,  and  thrown 
To  fields  and  fortunes  all  unknown  — 
What  thoughts  were  yours,  revealed  to  none. 
While  faithful  still  you  labored  on  — 
Hearing  the  far  Manassas  gun ! 

McClellan, 
Only  Antietam  could  atone. 

You  fought  in  the  front  (an  evil  day, 

McClellan)  — 

The  forefront  of  the  first  assay; 
The  Cause  went  sounding,  groped  its  way; 
The  leadsmen  quarrelled  in  the  bay; 
Quills  thwarted  swords;  divided  sway; 
The  rebel  flushed  in  his  lusty  May: 
You  did  your  best,  as  in  you  lay, 

McClellan. 
Antietam's  sun-burst  sheds  a  ray. 

Your  medalled  soldiers  love  you  well, 

McClellan! 
Name  your  name,  their  true  hearts  swell; 


With  you  they  shook  dread  Stonewall's  spell. 
With  you  they  braved  the  blended  yell 
Of  rebel  and  maligner  fell; 
With  you  in  fame  or  shame  they  dwell, 

McClellan ! 
Antietam-braves  a  brave  can  tell. 

And  when  your  comrades  (now  so  few, 

McClellan,  — 

Such  ravage  in  deep  files  they  rue) 
Meet  round  the  board,  and  sadly  view 
The  empty  places;  tribute  due 
They  render  to  the  dead  —  and  you ! 
Absent  and  silent  o'er  the  blue; 
The  one-armed  lift  the  wine  to  you, 

McClellan, 
And  great  Antietam's  cheers  renew. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


On  October  1,  1862,  President  Lincoln  issued 
to  McClellan  a  peremptory  order  to  pursue  Lee. 
Twenty  days  were  spent  in  correspondence  before 
that  order  was  obeyed.  McClellan  had  exhausted 
the  patience  even  of  the  President.  On  November 
5  he  was  relieved  from  command,  and  General 
A.E.  Burnside  appointed  to  replace  him.  The  latter 
paused  to  get  the  army  in  hand  and  then  moved 
down  the  Rappahannock  toward  Fredericksburg, 
where  Lee  was  strongly  intrenched.  On  December 
1 1  the  Union  army  managed  to  cross  the  Potomac 
in  the  face  of  a  heavy  fire. 


THE    CROSSING    AT    FREDERICKS- 
BURG 

[December  11,  1862| 

I  LAY  in  my  tent  at  mid-day, 

Too  full  of  pain  to  die. 
When  I  heard  the  voice  of  Burnside, 

And  an  answering  shout  reply. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  the  General.  — 
'T  was  firm,  though  low  and  sad ; 

But  the  roar  that  followed  his  question 
Laughed  out  till  the  hills  were  glad. 

"O  comrade,  open  the  curtain, 
And  see  where  our  men  are  bound, 

For  my  heart  is  still  in  my  bosom 
At  that  terrible,  mirthful  sound. 

"And  hark  what  the  General  orders, 
For  I  could  not  catch  his  words; 

But  what  means  that  hurry  and  movement, 
That  clash  of  muskets  and  swords?" 


AT   FREDERICKSBURG 


447 


"Lie  still,  lie  still,  my  Captain, 

'T  is  a  call  for  volunteers; 
And  the  noise  that  vexes  your  fever 

Is  only  our  soldiers'  cheers." 

"Where  go  they?"   "Across  the  river." 

"O  God!  and  must  I  lie  still, 
While  that  drum  and   that  measured  tramp 
ling 

Move  from  me  far  down  the  hill  ? 

"How  many?"   "I  judge,  four  hundred." 
"Who  are  they?   I'll  know  to  a  man." 

"Our  own  Nineteenth  and  Twentieth, 
And  the  Seventh  Michigan." 

'Oh.  to  go,  but  to  go  with  my  comrades! 

Tear  the  curtain  away  from  the  hook; 
For  I  '11  see  them  march  down  to  their  glory, 

If  I  perish  by  the  look ! " 

They  leaped  in  the  rocking  shallops. 

Ten  offered  where  one  could  go; 
And  the  breeze  was  alive  with  laughter 

Till  the  boatmen  began  to  row. 

Then  the  shore,  where  the  rebels  harbored, 
Was  fringed  with  a  gush  of  flame, 

And  buzzing,  like  bees,  o'er  the  water 
The  swarms  of  their  bullets  came. 

In  silence,  how  dread  and  solemn! 

With  courage,  how  grand  and  true! 
Steadily,  steadily  onward 

The  line  of  the  shallops  drew. 

Not  a  whisper!   Each  man  was  conscious 

He  stood  in  the  sight  of  death ; 
So  he  bowed  to  the  awful  presence, 

And  treasured  his  living  breath. 

'Twixt  death  in  the  air  above  them, 

And  death  in  the  waves  below, 
Through  balls  and  grape  and  shrapnel 

They  moved  —  my  God,  how  slow! 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow, 

Who  sprang  in  the  boats  with  mirth, 

Ere  they  made  that  fatal  crossing 
Was  a  load  of  lifeless  earth. 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow. 

Whose  limbs  with  strength  were  rife, 

Was  torn  and  crushed  and  shattered,  — 
A  hopeless  wreck  for  life. 


But  yet  the  boats  moved  onward; 

Through  fire  and  lead  they  drove, 
With  the  dark,  still  mass  within  them, 

And  the  floating  stars  above. 

So  loud  and  near  it  sounded, 

I  started  at  the  shout, 
As  the  keels  ground  on  the  gravel, 

And  the  eager  men  burst  out. 

Cheer  after  cheer  we  sent  them, 

As  only  armies  can,  — 
Cheers  for  old  Massachusetts, 

Cheers  for  young  Michigan! 

They  formed  in  line  of  battle; 

Not  a  man  was  out  of  place. 
Then  with  levelled  steel  they  hurled  them 

Straight  in  the  rebels'  face. 

"Oh,  help  me,  help  me,  comrade! 

For  tears  my  eyelids  drown, 
As  I  see  their  smoking  banners 

Stream  up  the  smoking  town. 

"And  see  the  noisy  workmen 

O'er  the  lengthening  bridges  run, 

And  the  troops  that  swarm  to  cross  them 
When  the  rapid  work  be  done. 

"  For  the  old  heat,  or  a  new  one, 

Flames  up  in  every  vein; 
And  with  fever  or  with  passion 

I  am  faint  as  death  again. 

"If  this  is  death,  I  care  not! 

Hear  me,  men.  from  rear  to  van !  — 
One  more  cheer  for  Massachusetts, 

And  one  more  for  Michigan!" 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKEB. 

On  the  morning  of  December  13,  1862,  the 
Union  army  advanced  to  the  attack.  The  Con 
federate  advance  lines  were  driven  back,  but  ral 
lied  and  drove  back  their  assailants  with  heavy 
loss.  Assault  after  assault  was  repulsed,  and 
Burnside  was  finally  compelled  to  withdraw  with 
a  loss  of  fifteen  thousand  men.  He  was  relieved 
of  command  soon  afterwards. 

AT  FREDERICKSBURG 

[December  13.  1862] 

GOD  send  us  peace,  and  keep  red  strife  awaj  ; 
But  should  it  come,  God  send  us  men  and 
steel! 


448 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  land  is  dead  that  dare  not  face  the  day 
When  foreign  danger  threats  the  common 
weal. 

Defenders  strong  are  they  that  homes  defend ; 

From  ready  arms  the  spoiler  keeps  afar. 
Well  blest  the  country  that  has  sons  to  lend 

From  trades  of  peace  to  learn  the  trade  of 
war. 

Thrice  blest  the  nation  that  has  every  son 
A  soldier,  ready  for  the  warning  sound ; 

Who  marches  homeward  when  the  fight  is 

done, 
To  swing  the  hammer  and  to  till  the  ground. 

Call  back  that  morning,  with  its  lurid  light, 
When  through  our  land  the  awful  war- bell 

tolled; 
When  lips  were  mute,  and  women's  faces 

white 

As  the  pale  cloud  that  out  from  Sumter 
rolled. 

Call  back  that  morn:    an  instant  all  were 

dumb, 

As  if  the  shot  had  struck  the  Nation's  life; 
Then  cleared  the  smoke,  and  rolled  the  calling 

drum. 

And  men  streamed  in  to  meet  the  coming 
strife. 

They  closed  the  ledger  and  they  stilled  the 

loom. 

The  plough  left  rusting  in  the  prairie  farm ; 
They  saw  but  "Union"  in  the  gathering 

gloom; 

The  tearless  women  helped  the  men  to 
arm; 

Brigades  from  towns  —  each  village  sent  its 
band: 

German  and  Irish  —  every  race  and  faith ; 
There  was  no  question  then  of  native  land, 

But  —  love  the  Flag  and  follow  it  to  death. 

No  need  to  tell  their  tale :  through  every  age 
The  splendid  story  shall  be  sung  and  said; 

But  let  me  draw  one  picture  from  the  page  — 
For  words  of  song  embalm  the  hero  dead. 


The  smooth  hill  is  bare,  and  the  cannons  are 

planted, 
Like  Gorgon  fates  shading  its  terrible  brow ; 


The  word  has  been  passed  that  the  stormers 

are  wanted. 
And   Burnside's   battalions  are  mustering 

now. 
The  armies  stand  by  to  behold  the  dread 

meeting; 

The  work  must  be  done  by  a  desperate  few ; 
The  black-mouthed  guns  on  the  height  give 

them  greeting  — 
From  gun-mouth  to  plain  every  grass  blade 

in  view. 
Strong  earthworks  are  there,  and  the  rifles 

behind  'them 

Are  Georgia  militia  —  an  Irish  brigade  — 
Their  caps  have  green  badges,  as  if  to  remind 

them 

Of  all  the  brave  record  their  country  has 
made. 

The    stormers    go  forward  —  the    Federals 

cheer  them; 
They  breast  the  smooth  hillside  —  the  black 

mouths  are  dumb; 
The  riflemen  lie  in  the  works  till  they  near 

them, 
And  cover   the  stormers  as  upward   they 

come. 
Was  ever  a  death-march   so  grand  and   so 

solemn  ? 

At  last,  the  dark  summit  with  flame  is  en- 
lined; 
The  great  guns  belch  doom  on  the  sacrificed 

column, 
That  reels  from  the  height,  leaving  hundreds 

behind. 
The  armies  are  hushed  —  there  is  no  cause 

for  cheering: 
The  fall  of  brave  men  to  brave  men  is  a 

pain. 
Again  come  the  stormers!    and  as  they  are 

nearing 
The    flame-sheeted    rifle-lines,    reel    back 

again. 
And    so   till   full    noon   come   the    Federal 

masses  — 
Flung  back  from  the  height,  as  the  cliff 

flings  a  wave; 
Brigade   on    brigade   to   the  death-struggle 

passes, 
No  wavering  rank  till  it  steps  on  the  grave. 

Then  comes  a  brief  lull,  and  the  smoke-pall 

is  lifted, 
The  green  of  the  hillside  no  longer  is  seen; 


BY  THE   POTOMAC 


449 


The  dead  soldiers  lie  as  the  sea-weed  is  drifted, 
The  earthworks  still  held  by  the  badges  of 

preen. 
Have  they  quailed  ?  is  the  word.  No:  again 

they  are  forming  — 

Again  comes  a  column  to  death  and  defeat ! 
What  is  it  in  these  who  shall  now  do  the 

storming 

That  makes  every  Georgian  spring  to  his 
feet? 

"  O  God !  what  a  pity ! "  they  cry  in  their  cover, 
As  rifles  are  readied  and  bayonets  made 

tight; 
"  'T  is  Meagher  and  his  fellows !   their  caps 

have  green  clover; 
'T  is  Greek  to  Greek  now  for  the  rest  of  the 

fight!" 
Twelve  hundred  the  column,  their  rent  flag 

before  them, 
With   Meagher  at  their  head,  they  have 

dashed  at  the  hill! 
Their  foemen  are  proud  of  the  country  that 

bore  them; 

But,  Irish  in  love,  they  are  enemies  still. 
Out  rings  the  fierce  word,  "Let  them  have  it ! " 

the  rifles 
Are  emptied  point-blank  in  the  hearts  of 

the  foe: 

It  is  green  against  green,  but  a  principle  stifles 
The   Irishman's    love    in    the    Georgian's 

blow. 

The  column  has  reeled,  hut  it  is  not  defeated; 
In  front  of  the  guns  they  re-form  and  attack ; 
Six  times  they  have  done  it,  and  six  times  re 
treated  ; 

Twelve  hundred  they  came,  and  two  hun 
dred  go  back. 
Two  hundred  go  back  with  the  chivalrous 

story; 
The  wild  day  is  closed  in  the  night's  solemn 

shroud ; 
A  thousand  lie  dead,  but  their  death  was  a 

glory 

That    calls    not    for    tears  —  the    Green 
Badges  are  proud ! 

Bright  honor  be  theirs  who  for  honor  were 

fearless, 

Who  charged  for  their  flag  to  the  grim  can 
non's  mouth; 
And  honor  to  them  who  were  true,  though  not 

tearless,  — 

Who  bravely  that  day  kept  the  cause  of  the 
South. 


The  quarrel  is  done  —  God  avert  such  an 
other; 
The  lesson  it  brought  we  should  evermore 

heed: 

Who  loveth  the  Flag  is  a  man  and  a  brother, 
No  matter  what  birth  or  what  race  or  what 
creed. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


FREDERICKSBURG 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my 

bed, 

And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow.  .  .  . 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled ; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen!  Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg;   far  off  the  heavens  are 

red 

With  sudden  conflagration:   on  yon  height. 
Linstock   in   hand,  the  gunners   hold   their 

breath ; 

A  signal -rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath : 
Hark!  —  the  artillery  massing  on  the  right. 
Hark !  —  the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down 

to  Death ! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


Major-General  Joseph  Hooker  was  placed  in 
command,  and  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
of  which  so  much  had  been  expected,  went  into 
winter  quarters  on  the  Rappahannock. 


BY  THE  POTOMAC 

THE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 
By  the  Potomac ;   and  the  crisp  ground-flower 
Tilts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower; 
The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 
Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 
Hark,  whata  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower ! — 
The  Southern  nightingale  that  hour  by  hour 
In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 
Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voice  of  bird  and  rivulet 
And  drowsy  murmur  of  the  rustling  leaf 
Would  Nature  soothe  us,  bidding  us  forget 
The  awful  crime  of  this  distracted  land 
And  all  our  heavy  heritage  of  grief. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDBICH. 


45° 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

ALONG  a  river-side.  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream ; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair. 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted 


Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistle  downs  of  light; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  son.e  goblin 

tryst. 

Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the 

night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 
A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my 

breath : 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 
'But  something  said,  "This  water  is  of  Death  ! 
'The    Sisters  wash  a    shroud,  —  ill    thing  to 

hear!" 

H.  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 
Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Northman's 

creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless 

brede. 
One  song:   "Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time 

shall  be." 

!No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had 
deemed, 

But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow. 

To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed ; 

Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sor 
row. 

Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their  faces 
gleamed. 

"Still  men  -and  nations  reap  as  they  have 

strawn," 

So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while; 
*'The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere 

•dawn : 

For  Austria?  Italy?  the  Sea-Queen's  isle? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our 

shroud  be  drawn  ? 

"Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  like  children  round  his 
knees, 


That  tamed   the  waves   to  be  his   posting- 
horse. 

Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,   hammerer,  youngest  son  of 
Thor's? 

"What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou  ?  and  what 

are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the 

shroud, 

The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three: 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it,  —  why 

not  he?" 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "so  strong,  so 

fair! 
Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook 

ere  while 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair  ? 

"Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames ! 
I  see,  half  seeing.  Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars.  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest 

aims 

Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands? 
Must    Hesper   join    the    wailing    ghosts    of 

names?" 

"When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle- 
dew. 

Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain: 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"  Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion :  Knowledge. 

Will,  — 
These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the 

third,  — 
Obedience,  —  't  is    the    great   tap-root    that 

still. 

Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred. 
Though  Heaven-loosed  tempests  spend  their 

utmost  skill. 

"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper  ?  'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time: 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sub 
lime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril:  which  shall  Hesper  be? 


THE   LITTLE  DRUMMER 


"Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom  ?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet ! 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest 

rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by ;  slippery  those  with 

gold 

Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock: 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre 

hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the 

block. 

"We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours;    men  hear  and 

know, 

See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten.  Sisters!   for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for  him. 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim ! 


"His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That   walk   unblenching  through   the  trial- 
fires; 

Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires. 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his 
foes. 

"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those 
who  win 

Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 

Peace,  too,  brings  tears;  and  mid  the  battle- 
din. 

The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 

For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker 


"  God,  give  us  peace !  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 
But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose 

knit! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 
Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 
And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their 

leap ! " 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate 

pain, 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and 

died. 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
October,  1861. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE   WAR    IN   THE  WEST 


While  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  in  the  east  was 
imitating  the  manoeuvres  of  the  King  of  France, 
stirring  times  were  enacting  in  the  west.  Mis 
souri  was  torn  with  dissension.  The  state  had 
voted  against  secession  in  February,  but  the 
governor,  C.  F.  Jackson,  was  doing  everything  he 
could  to  throw  it  into  the  Confederacy.  Genera! 
Nathaniel  Lyon  raised  a  force  of  loyalists,  and  a 
number  of  skirmishes  ensued. 

THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER1 

'T  is  of  a  little  drummer, 
The  story  I  shall  tell; 

1  From  Poetical  Writings  of  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard;  copyright,  1880,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


Of  how  he  marched  to  battle, 

Of  all  that  there  befell. 
Out  in  the  west  with  Lyon 

(For  once  the  name  was  true!) 
For  whom  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 

Our  army  rose  at  midnight, 

Ten  thousand  men  as  one. 
Each  slinging  off  his  knapsack 

And  snatching  up  his  gun. 
'  Forward  I"  and  off  they  started, 

As  all  good  soldiers  do, 
When  the  little  drummer  beats  for  them 

The  rat-tat-too. 


452 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Across  a  rolling  country, 

Where  the  mist  began  to  rise; 
Past  many  a  blackened  farmhouse, 

Till  the  sun  was  in  the  skies; 
Then  we  met  the  rebel  pickets, 

Who  skirmished  and  withdrew, 
While  the  little  drummer  beat,  and  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 

Along  the  wooded  hollows 

The  line  of  battle  ran, 
Our  centre  poured  a  volley. 

And  the  fight  at  once  began; 
For  the  rebels  answered  shouting, 

And  a  shower  of  bullets  flew; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 

He  stood  among  his  comrades, 

As  they  quickly  formed  the  line, 
And  when  they  raised  their  muskets 

He  watched  the  barrels  shine. 
When  the  volley  rang,  he  started, 

For  war  to  him  was  new; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  ral-tat-too. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  them. 

That  early  autumn  day, 
Our  soldiers  in  their  blue  coats, 

And  the  rebel  ranks  in  gray; 
The  smoke  that  rolled  between  them, 

The  balls  that  whistled  through, 
And  the  little  drummer  as  he  beat 

His  rat-tat-too  I 

His  comrades  dropped  around  him,  — 

By  fives  and  tens  they  fell, 
Some  pierced  by  minie  bullets, 

Some  torn  by  shot  and  shell; 
They  played  against  our  cannon, 

And  a  caisson's  splinters  flew; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too  I 

The  right,  the  left,  the  centre,  — 

The  fight  was  everywhere; 
They  pushed  us  here,  —  we  wavered,  — 

We  drove  and  broke  them  there. 
The  graybacks  fixed  their  bayonets, 

And  charged  the  coats  of  blue, 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too  ! 

'Where  is  our  little  drummer?" 
His  nearest  comrades  say, 


When  the  dreadful  fight  is  over, 
And  the  smoke  has  cleared  away. 

As  the  rebel  corps  was  scattering 
He  urged  them  to  pursue. 

So  furiously  he  beat,  and  beat 
The  rat-tat-too  1 

He  stood  no  more  among  them, 

For  a  bullet,  as  it  sped, 
Had  glanced  and  struck  his  ankle, 

And  stretched  him  with  the  dead ! 
He  crawled  behind  a  cannon, 

And  pale  and  paler  grew ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too  1 

They  bore  him  to  the  surgeon, 

A  busy  man  was  he: 
"A  drummer  boy  —  what  ails  him?" 

His  comrades  answered,  "See!" 
As  they  took  him  from  the  stretcher 

A  heavy  breath  he  drew, 
And  his  little  fingers  strove  to  beat 

The  rat-tat-too  I 

The  ball  had  spent  its  fury: 

"A  scratch!"  the  surgeon  said, 
As  he  wound  the  snowy  bandage 

W'hich  the  lint  was  staining  red. 
"I  must  leave  you  now,  old  fellow!" 

"Oh,  take  me  back  with  you, 
For  I  know  the  men  are  missing  me 

And  the  rat-tat-too  !"' 

Upon  his  comrade's  shoulder 

They  lifted  him  so  grand, 
With  his  dusty  drum  before  him, 

And  his  drumsticks  in  his  hand! 
To  the  fiery  front  of  battle, 

That  nearer,  nearer  drew,  — 
And  evermore  he  beat,  and  beat 

His  rat-tat-too  ! 

The  wounded  as  he  passed  them 

Looked  up  and  gave  a  cheer; 
And  one  in  dying  blessed  him, 

Between  a  smile  and  tear. 
And  the  graybacks  —  they  are  flying 

Before  the  coats  of  blue, 
For  whom  the  little  drummer  beats 

His  rat-tat-too. 

-  When  the  west  was  red  with  sunset, 

The  last  pursuit  was  o'er; 
Brave  Lyon  rode  the  foremost, 
And  looked  the  name  he  bore. 


ZAGONYI 


453 


And  before  him  on  his  saddle, 
As  a  weary  child  would  do, 

Sat  the  little  drummer,  fast  asleep, 
With  his  rat-tat-loo. 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDABD. 


Hostilities  culminated  on  August  10,  1861,  in  a 
pitched  battle  at  Wilson's  Creek,  in  which, 
through  bad  management,  the  Union  forces  were 
defeated  and  Lyou  himself  was  killed. 

THE  DEATH  OF  LYON 

[August  10,  186 1J 

SING,  bird,  on  green  Missouri's  plain, 

The  saddest  song  of  sorrow; 
Drop  tears,  O  clouds,  in  gentlest  rain 

Ye  from  the  winds  can  borrow; 
Breathe  out,  ye  winds,  your  softest  sigh, 

Weep,  flowers,  in  dewy  splendor, 
For  him  who  knew  well  how  to  die, 

But  never  to  surrender. 

Up  rose  serene  the  August  sun 

Upon  that  day  of  glory; 
Up  curled  from  musket  and  from  gun 

The  war-cloud,  gray  and  hoary; 
It  gathered  like  a  funeral  pall. 

Now  broken,  and  now  blended. 
Where  rang  the  bugle's  angry  call, 

And  rank  with  rank  contended. 

Four  thousand  men,  as  brave  and  true 

As  e'er  went  forth  in  daring, 
Upon  the  foe  that  morning  threw 

The  strength  of  their  despairing. 
They  feared  not  death  —  men  bless  the  field 

That  patriot  soldiers  die  on; 
Fair  Freedom's  cause  was  sword  and  shield, 

And  at  their  head  was  Lyon. 

Their  leader's  troubled  soul  looked  forth 

From  eyes  of  troubled  brightness; 
Sad  soul !  the  burden  of  the  North 

Had  pressed  out  all  its  lightness. 
He  gazed  upon  the  unequal  fight, 

His  ranks  all  rent  and  gory. 
And  felt  the  shadows  close  like  night 

Round  his  career  of  glory. 

"General,  come  lead  us!"  loud  the  cry 
From  a  brave  band  was  ringing  — 

"Lead  us,  and  we  will  stop,  or  die, 
That  battery's  awful  singing!" 


He  spurred  to  where  his  heroes  stood  — 
Twice  wounded,  no  one  knowing  — 

The  fire  of  battle  in  his  blood 
And  on  his  forehead  glowing. 

Oh!  cursed  for  aye  that  traitor's  hand, 

And  cursed  that  aim  so  deadly, 
Which  smote  the  bravest  of  the  land, 

And  dyed  his  bosom  redly. 
Serene  he  lay,  while  past  him  pressed 

The  battle's  furious  billow, 
As  calmly  as  a  babe  may  rest 

Upon  its  mother's  pillow. 

So  Lyon  died ;  and  well  may  flowers 

His  place  of  burial  cover, 
For  never  had  this  land  of  ours 

A  more  devoted  lover. 
Living,  his  country  was  his  bride; 

His  life  he  gave  her,  dying; 
Life,  fortune,  love,  he  nought  denied 

To  her,  and  to  her  sighing. 

Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  hillside  grave, 

Beside  her  form  who  bore  thee! 
Long  may  the  land  thou  diedst  to  save 

Her  bannered  stars  wave  o'er  thee! 
Upon  her  history's  brightest  page, 

And  on  fame's  glowing  portal. 
She'll  write  thy  grand,  heroic  age. 

And  grave  thy  name  immortal. 

HENRY  PETERSON. 


John  C.  Fre'mont  had  been  placed  in  command 
of  the  department  and  advanced  against  the  Con 
federates  at  the  head  of  a  strong  force.  On  Octo 
ber  23,  1861,  he  detached  a  squadron  of  cavalry 
under  Major  Charles  Zagonyi  to  reconnoitre  the 
Confederate  position  at  Springfield.  Zagonyi  found 
the  Confederates  two  thousand  strong,  but  charged 
them  at  the  head  of  his  hundred  and  fifty  men, 
routed  them,  cut  them  to  pieces,  and  drove  them 
from  the  city.  The  charge  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  in  history.  The  Confederates  finally 
withdrew  from  the  state. 


ZAGONYI 

(October  25,  1861| 

BOLD  Captain  of  the  Body-Guard, 

I'll  troll  a  stave  to  thee! 
My  voice  is  somewhat  harsh  and  hard, 

And  rough  my  minstrelsy. 
I've  cheered  until  my  throat  is  sore 
For  how  Dupont  at  Beaufort  bore; 

Yet  here's  a  cheer  for  thee! 


454 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


I  hear  thy  jingling  spurs  and  reins, 

Thy  sabre  at  thy  knee; 
The  blood  runs  lighter  through  my  veins, 

As  I  before  me  see 

Thy  hundred  men  with  thrusts  and  blows 
Hide  down  a  thousand  stubborn  foes, 

The  foremost  led  by  thee. 

With  pistol  snap  and  rifle  crack  — 
Mere  salvos  fired  to  honor  thee  — 

Ye  plunge,  and  stamp,  and  shoot,  and  hack 
The  way  your  swords  make  free; 

Then  back  again,  —  the  path  is  wide 

This  time,  —  ye  gods !   it  was  a  ride, 
The  ride  they  took  with  thee! 

No  guardsman  of  the  whole  command 

Halts,  quails,  or  turns  to  flee; 
With  bloody  spur  and  steady  hand 

They  gallop  where  they  see 
Thy  daring  plume  stream  out  ahead 
O'er  flying,  wounded,  dying,  dead; 

They  can  but  follow  thee. 

So,  Captain  of  the  Body-Guard, 

I  pledge  a  health  to  thee! 
I  hope  to  see  thy  shoulders  starred, 

My  Paladin;  and  we 
Shall  laugh  at  fortune  in  the  fray 
Whene'er  you  lead  your  well-known  way 

To  death  or  victory ! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKEB. 

Kentucky  was  another  state  divided  against 
itself.  For  a  time,  it  endeavored  to  preserve 
neutrality,  but  finally  chose  the  Union  side.  On 
January  19,  1862,  the  battle  of  Somerset  was 
fought,  resulting  in  a  Union  victory. 

BATTLE  OF  SOMERSET 

[January  19,  1862] 

I  GAZED,  and  lo!  Afar  and  near, 
With  hastening  speed,  now  there,  now  here, 
The  horseman  rode  with  glittering  spear  — 
'Twas  awful  to  behold! 

Ten  thousand  men,  in  dread  array  — 
On  every  hill  and  mound  they  lay  — 
A  dreadful  sight  it  was  that  day 
To  see  the  front  they  formed. 

The  polished  sabres,  waving  high. 
Flashed  brightly  in  the  morning  sky; 
While,  beaming  on  the  dazzled  eye, 
The  glittering  bayonets  shone. 


All,  all  was  hushed  among  the  trees, 
Save  now  and  then  a  gentle  breeze, 
Which  stirr'd  the  brown  and  serried  leaves 
That  in  the  forest  lay. 

But  what  is  that  which  greets  mine  eye? 
Is  it  Columbia's  sons  I  spy  ? 
Hark !   hark !   I  hear  their  battle  cry  — 
Their  shouts  of  victory! 

Still  hotter  does  the  conflict  grow; 
While  dealing  death  in  every  blow, 
McCook  charged  on  the  routed  foe 
His  daring  little  band. 

Rest,  patriots,  rest;   the  conflict's  o'er, 
Your  erring  brethren  punished  sore; 
Oh,  would  they  'd  fight  their  friends  no  more, 
And  cease  this  bloody  strife. 

CORNELIUS  C.  CULLEN. 


The  Confederate  loss  was  very  heavy,  and  in 
one  respect  irreparable,  for  General  Felix  K.  Zolli- 
coffer  was  killed  while  reconnoitring  the  Union 
position. 

ZOLLICOFFER 

[January  19,  1862] 

FIRST  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story; 

For  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart, 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished. 

Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished ! 

In  Heaven  a  home  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And  for  his  soul's  sustaining 
The  apocalyptic  eyes  of  Christ  — 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining, 

But  a  handful  of  dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice, 

A  name  in  song  and  story  — 
And  fame  to  shout  with  immortal  voice 

Dead  on  the  field  of  Glory! 

HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH. 


Near  the  southern  line  of  Kentucky,  the  Con 
federates  held  two  strong  forts,  Henry  and  Don- 
elson,  and  on  February  2,  1862,  a  Union  force 
under  General  Ulysses  S.  Grant  moved  forward  to 
attack  them.  The  army  was  supported  by  a  fleet 
of  gunboats,  and  Fort  Henry  surrendered  to  the 


BOY   BRITTAN 


455 


fleet  before  the  land  forces  came  up.  The  gunboat 
Essex  led  the  attack  and  suffered  severely,  among 
her  dead  being  Lieutenant  S.  B.  Brittan,  Jr.,  a 
boy  of  not  quite  seventeen. 

BOY  BRITTAN 

[February  6,  1862] 


BOY  BRITTAN  —  only  a  lad — a  fair-haired 
boy  —  sixteen. 

In  his  uniform, 
Into  the  storm  —  into  the  roaring  jaws  of 

grim  Fort  Henry  — 
Boldly  bears  the  Federal  flotilla  — 
Into  the  battle  storm! 


Hoy  Brittan  is  master's  mate  aboard  of  the 

Essex  — 
There  he  stands,  buoyant  and  eager-eyed, 

By  the  brave  captain's  side; 
Heady  to  do  and  dare.  Aye,  aye,  sir  !  always 
ready  — 

In  his  country's  uniform. 
Boom  !  Boom  !  and  now  the  flag-boat  sweeps, 
and  now  the  Essex, 
Into  the  battle  storm! 


Boom!  Boom!  till  river  and  fort  and  field  are 

overclouded 

By  battle's  breath ;  then  from  the  fort  a  gleam 
And  a  crashing  gun,  and  the  Essex  is  wrapt 

and  shrouded 

In  a  scalding  cloud  of  steam ! 


But  victory!   victory! 

I'nto  God  all  praise  be  ever  rendered, 

Unto  God  all  praise  and  glory  be! 

See,  Boy  Brittan!   see,  boy,  see! 

They  strike !   Hurrah !   the  fort  has  just  sur 
rendered  ! 

Shout!   Shout!    my  boy,  my  warrior  boy! 

And  wave  your  cap  and  clap  your  hands  for 
joy! 

Cheer  answer  cheer   and    bear   the   cheer 
about  — 

Hurrah !  Hurrah !   for  the  fiery  fort  is  ours ; 

And  "Victory!"  "Victory!"  "Victory!" 
Is  the  shout. 

Shout  —  for  the  fiery  fort,  and  the  field,  and 
the  day  are  ours  — 


The  day  is  ours  —  thanks  to  the  brave  en 
deavor 

Of  heroes,  boy,  like  thee! 
The  day  is  ours  —  the  day  is  ours ! 
Glory  and  deathless  love  to  all  who  shared 

with  thee, 

And  bravely  endured  and  dared  with  thee  — 
The  day  is  ours  —  the  day  is  ours  — 

Forever ! 
Glory  and  Love  for  one  and  all ;  but  —  but  — 

for  thee  — 

Home!    Home!   a  happy  "Welcome  —  wel 
come  home"  for  thee! 

And  kisses  of  love  for  thee  — 
And  a  mother's  happy,  happy  tears,  and  a 
virgin's  bridal  wreath  of  flowers  — 
For  thee! 


Victory!  Victory!  .  .  . 
But  suddenly  wrecked  and  wrapt  in  seething 

steam,  the  Essex 

Slowly  drifted  out  of  the  battle's  storm; 
Slowly,  slowly  down  —  laden  with  the  dead 

and  the  dying; 
And  there,  at  the  captain's  feet,  among  the 

dead  and  the  dying, 
The  shot-marred  form  of  a  beautiful  boy  is 

lying  — 
There  in  his  uniform! 


Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy. 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee! 

Laurels  of  light,  moist  with  the  precious  dew 

Of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  nation's  loving 

heart, 
And  blest  by  the  balmy  breath  of  the  beautiful 

and  the  true; 

Moist  —  moist  with  the  luminous  breath  of 
the  singing  spheres 

And  the  nation's  starry  tears! 
And  tremble-touched  by  the  pulse-like  gush 

and  start 
Of  the  universal  music  of  the  heart, 

And  all  deep  sympathy. 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy. 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee  — 
Laurels  of  light  and  tears  of  love  forever 
more  — 
For  thee! 


And  laurels  of  light,  and  tears  of  truth. 
And  the  mantle  of  immortality; 


456 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  the  flowers  of  love  and  of  immortal  youth. 
And  the  tender  heart-tokens  of  all  true  ruth  — 

And  the  everlasting  victory ! 
And  the  breath  and  bliss  of  Liberty; 
And  the  loving  kiss  of  Liberty; 
And  the  welcoming  light  of  heavenly  eyes, 
And  the  over-calm  of  God's  canopy; 
And  the  infinite  love-span  of  the  skies 
That  cover  the  valleys  of  Paradise  — 
For  all  of  the  brave  who  rest  with  thee; 
And  for  one  and  all  who  died  with  thee, 
And  now  sleep  side  by  side  with  thee ; 
And  for  every  one  who  lives  and  dies, 
On  the  solid  land  or  the  heaving  sea, 

Dear  warrior-boy  —  like  thee. 

VIII 

O  the  victory  —  the  victory 
Belongs  to  thee! 

God  ever  keeps  the  brightest  crown  for  such 
as  thou  — 
He  gives  it  now  to  thee! 

0  young  and   brave,  and  early  and   thrice 

blest  — 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest! 
Thy  country  turns  once  more  to  kiss  thy  youth 
ful  brow, 
And    takes    thee  —  gently  —  gently    to   her 

breast; 

And  whispers  lovingly,  "God  bless  thee  — 
bless  thee  now  — 

My  darling,  thou  shall  rest!" 

FORCEYIHE  WlU-SON. 

The  fall  of  Fort  Donelson,  soon  afterwards, 
opened  the  way  to  the  south  and  it  was  decided 
to  advance  against  Corinth,  Miss.,  with  Pittsbur<* 
Landing  as  the  base  of  operations.  By  the  first  of 
April,  1862,  five  divisions  had  been  concentrated 
there,  but  the  Confederates  had  also  massed  a 
great  army  near  by,  and  on  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
April  6,  moved  forward  to  the  attack,  took  their 
opponents  by  surprise,  and  drove  them  back  to 
the  river.  The  Confederate  leader,  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston,  was  killed  during  the  battle. 

ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON 

[April  6,  1862] 

1  HEAH  again  the  tread  of  war  go  thundering 

through  the  land. 
And  Puritan  and  Cavalier  are  clinching  neck 

and  hand, 
Round  Shiloh  church  the  furious  foes  have 

met  to  thrust  and  slay, 
Where  erst  the  peaceful  sons  of  Christ  were 

wont  to  kneel  and  pray. 


The  wrestling  of  the  ages  shakes  the  hills  of 

Tennessee, 
With  all  their  echoing  mounts  a-throb  with 

war's  wild  minstrelsy; 
A  galaxy  of  stars  new-born  round  the  shield 

of  Mars, 
And  •  set  against  the  Stars  and  Stripes  the 

flashing  Stars  and  Bars. 

'T  was  Albert  Sidney  Johnston  led  the  columns 
of  the  Gray, 

Like  Hector  on  the  plains  of  Troy  his  pre 
sence  fired  the  fray; 

And  dashing  horse  and  gleaming  sword  spake 
out  his  royal  will 

As  on  the  slopes  of  Shiloh  field  the  blasts  of 
war  blew  shrill. 

"Down  with  the  base  invaders,"  the  Gray 
shout  forth  the  cry, 

"Death  to  presumptuous  rebels,"  the  Blue 
ring  out  reply; 

All  day  the  conflict  rages  and  yet  again  all 
day, 

Though  Grant  is  on  the  Union  side  he  can 
not  stem  nor  stay. 

They  are  a  royal  race  of  men,  these  brothers 

face  to  face, 
Their  fury  speaking  through  their  guns,  their 

frenzy  in  their  pace; 
The  sweeping  onset  of  the  Gray  bears  down 

the  sturdy  Blue, 
Though  Sherman  and  his  legions  are  heroes 

through  and  through. 

Though   Prentiss  and   his  gallant  men  are 

forcing  scaur  and  crag, 
They  fall  like  sheaves  before  the  scythes  of 

Hardee  and  of  Bragg; 
Ah,  who  shall  tell  the  victor's  tale  when  all 

the  strife  is  past, 
When  man  and  man  in  one  great  mould  the 

men  who  strive  are  cast. 

As  when  the  Trojan  hero  came  from  that 
fair  city's  gates, 

With  tossing  mane  and  flaming  crest  to  scorn 
the  scowling  fates, 

His  legions  gather  round  him  and  madly 
charge  and  cheer. 

And  fill  the  besieging  armies  with  wild  di 
sheveled  fear; 


BEAUREGARD 


457 


Then  bares  his  breast  unto  the  dart  the  daring 

spearsman  sends, 
And  dying  hears  his  cheering  foes,  the  wailing 

of  his  friends, 
So  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  the  chief  of  belt 

and  scar, 
Lay  down  to  die  at  Shiloh  and  turned  the 

scales  of  war. 

Now  five  and  twenty  years  are  gone,  and  lo, 

to-day  they  come, 
The   Blue  and   Gray  in   proud  array  with 

throbbing  fife  and  drum; 
But  not  as  rivals,  not  as  foes,  as  brothers 

reconciled, 
To   twine   love's   fragrant   roses   where   the 

thorns  of  hate  grew  wild. 

They  tell  the  hero  of  three  wars,  the  lion- 
hearted  man, 

Who  wore  his  valor  like  a  star  —  uncrowned 
American ; 

Above  his  heart  serene  and  still  the  folded 
Stars  and  Bars, 

Above  his  head  like  mother-wings,  the  shelter 
ing  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Aye,  five  and  twenty  years,  and  lo,  the  man 
hood  of  the  South 

Has  held  its  valor  stanch  and  strong  as  at 
the  cannon's  mouth, 

With  patient  heart  and  silent  tongue  has 
kept  its  true  parole, 

And  in  the  conquests  born  of  peace  has 
crowned  its  battle  roll. 

But  ever  while  we  sing  of  war,  of  courage 

tried  and  true, 
Of  heroes  wed  to  gallant  deeds,  or  be  it  Gray 

or  Blue, 
Then  Albert  Sidney  Johnston's  name  shall 

flash  before  our  sight 
Like  some   resplendent   meteor  across   the 

sombre  night. 

America,  thy  sons  are  knit  with  sinews 
wrought  of  steel, 

They  will  not  bend,  they  will  not  break, 
beneath  the  tyrant's  heel; 

But  in  the  white-hot  flame  of  love,  to  silken 
cobwebs  spun, 

They  whirl  the  engines  of  the  world,  all  keep 
ing  time  as  one. 


To-day  they  stand  abreast  and  strong,  who 

stood  as  foes  of  yore, 
The  world  leaps  up  to  bless  their  feet,  heaven 

scatters  blessings  o'er; 
Their  robes  are  wrought  of  gleaming  gold, 

their  wings  are  freedom's  own, 
The    trampling   of   their    conquering    hosts 

shakes  pinnacle  and  throne. 

Oh,  veterans  of  the  Blue  and  Gray,  who  fought 

on  Shiloh  field, 
The  purposes  of  God  are  true,  His  judgment 

stands  revealed; 
The  pangs  of  war  have  rent  the  veil,  and  lo, 

His  high  decree: 
One  heart,  one  hope,  one  destiny,  one  flag 

from  sea  to  sea. 

KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 

ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON 


His  soul  to  God!  on  a  battle-psalm ! 

A  soldier's  plea  to  Heaven! 
From  the  victor  wreath  to  the  shining  Palm; 
From  the  battle's  core  to  the  central  calm, 

And  peace  of  God  in  Heaven. 

Oh,  Land!  in  your  midnight  of  mistrust 

The  golden  gates  flew  wide, 
And  the  kingly  soul  of  your  wise  and  just 
Passed  in  light  from  the  house  of  dust 

To  the  Home  of  the  Glorified ! 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR. 

Buell's  army  came  up  during  the  night,  and 
Grant  was  able  next  day  to  assume  the  offensive 
and  drive  the  enemy  from  the  field.  Johnston's 
death  left  Beauregard  commander-iu-chief  of  the 
Confederate  forces. 

BEAUREGARD 

OUR  trust  is  now  in  thee, 

Beauregard ! 
In  thy  hand  the  God  of  Hosts 

Hath  placed  the  sword; 
And  the  glory  of  thy  fame 
Has  set  the  world  aflame  — 
Hearts  kindle  at  thy  name, 

Beauregard ! 

The  way  that  lies  before 

Is  cold  and  hard ; 
We  are  led  across  the  desert 

By  the  Lord ! 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  the  cloud  that  shines  by  night 
To  guide  our  steps  aright, 
Is  the  pillar  of  thy  might, 
Beauregard ! 

Thou  hast  watched  the  southern  heavens 

Evening  starred, 
And  chosen  thence  thine  emblems, 

Beauregard ; 

And  upon  thy  banner's  fold 
Is  that  starry  cross  enrolled, 
Which  no  Northman  shall  behold 

Shamed  or  scarred. 

By  the  blood  that  crieth  loudly 

From  the  sword, 
We  have  sworn  to  keep  around  it 

\Yatch  and  ward. 
And  the  standard  of  thine  hand 
Yet  shall  shine  above  a  land. 
Like  its  leader,  free  and  grand, 

Beauregard ! 

MBS.  C.  A.  WARFIELD. 

The  advance  against  Corinth  was  continued,  and 
on  May  30.  1862,  the  Union  army  entered  the  city, 
which  the  Confederates  had  evacuated.  On  Octo 
ber  3,  4,  the  Confederates  attempted  to  recapture 
it,  but  were  repulsed  with  heavy  loss.  The  Eighth 
Wisconsin  carried  a  live  eagle  in  place  of  a  flag, 
and  during  the  battle  the  great  bird  circled  and 
circled  above  the  field. 

THE  EAGLE  OF  CORINTH 

[Octobers.  4,  1862J 

DID  you  hear  of  the  fight  at  Corinth, 

How  we  whipped  out  Price  and  Van  Dorn  ? 

Ah,  that  day  we  earned  our  rations 

(Our  cause  was  God's  and  the  Nation's, 
Or  we'd  have  come  out  forlorn!)  — 

A  long  and  terrible  day! 

And  at  last,1  when  night  grew  gray, 

By  the  hundreds,  there  they  lay 

(Heavy  sleepers,  you'd  say), 

That  would  n't  wake  on  the  morn. 

Our  staff  was  bare  of  a  flag, 

We  did  n't  carry  a  rag 

In  those  brave  marching  days;  — 

Ah,  no,  but  a  finer  thing! 

With  never  a  cord  or  string, 

An  eagle  of  ruffled  wing, 

And  an  eye  of  awful  gaze. 

The  grape  it  rattled  like  hail, 

The  minies  were  dropping  like  rain, 


The  first  of  a  thunder  shower; 

The  wads  were  blowing  like  chaff 

(There  was  pounding  like  floor  and  flail, 

All  the  front  of  our  line!), 

So  we  stood  it  hour  after  hour; 

But  our  eagle,  he  felt  fine ! 

*T  would  have  made  you  cheer  and  laugh, 

To  see,  through  that  iron  gale, 

How  the  old  fellow 'd  swoop  and  sail 

Above  the  racket  and  roar,  — 

To  right  and  to  left  he'd  soar, 

But  ever  came  back,  without  fail. 

And  perched  on  his  standard-staff. 

All  that  day,  I  tell  you  true, 

They  had  pressed  us  steady  and  fair. 

Till  we  fought  in  street  and  square 

(The  affair,  you  might  think,  looked  blue), — 

But  we  knew  we  had  them  there! 

Our  batteries  were  few, 

Every  gun,  they'd  have  sworn,  they  knew, 

But,  you  see,  there  were  one  or  two 

We  had  fixed  for  them,  unaware. 

They  reckon  they've  got  us  now! 

For  the  next  half  hour  't  will  be  warm  — 
Aye,  aye,  look  yonder !  —  I  vow, 
If  they  were  n't  Secesh,  how  I  'd  love  them ! 

Only  see  how  grandly  they  form 
(Our  eagle  whirling  above  them), 
To  take  Robinett  by  storm ! 
They're  timing!  —  it  can't  be  long  — 
Now  for  the  nub  of  the  fight ! 

(You  may  guess  that  we  held  our  breath.) 
By  the  Lord,  't  is  a  splendid  sight! 
A  column  two  thousand  strong 
Marching  square  to  the  death ! 

On  they  came  in  solid  column. 

For  once  no  whooping  nor  yell 

(Ah,  I  dare  say  they  felt  solemn !)  — 

Front  and  flank,  grape  and  shell, 

Our  batteries  pounded  away! 

And  the  minies  hummed  to  remind  'em 

They  had  started  on  no  child's  play ! 

Steady  they  kept  a-going, 
But  a  grim  wake  settled  behind  'em 
From  the  edge  of  the  abattis 
(Where  our  dead  and  dying  lay 
tinder  fence  and  fallen  tree), 
Up  to  Robinett,  all  the  way 
The  dreadful  swath  kept  growing! 
'T  was  butternut  mixed  with  gray. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MURFREESBORO 


459 


Now  for  it,  at  Robinett! 
Muzzle  to  muzzle  we  met 

(Not  a  breath  of  bluster  or  brag. 

Not  a  lisp  for  quarter  or  favor)  — 
Three  times,  there,  by  Robinett, 
With  a  rush,  their  feet  they  set 
On  the  logs  of  our  parapet, 

And  waved  their  bit  of  a  flag  — 
What  could  be  finer  or  braver! 
But  our  cross-fire  stunned  them  in  Sank, 
They  melted,  rank  after  rank 
(O'er  them,  with  terrible  poise, 

Our  Bird  did  circle  and  wheel !)  — 

Their  whole  line  began  to  waver  — 
Now  for  the  bayonet,  boys! 

On  them  with  the  cold  steel! 

Ah,  well  —  you  know  how  it  ended  — 

We  did  for  them,  there  and  then, 
But  their  pluck  throughout  was  splendid. 
(As  I  said  before,  I  could  love  them !) 

They  stood  to  the  last,  like  men  — 
Only  a  handful  of  them 

Found  the  way  back  again. 
Red  as  blood,  o'er  the  town. 
The  angry  sun  went  down, 

Firing  flagstaff  and  vane  — 
And  our  eagle,  —  as  for  him, 
There,  all  ruffled  and  grim, 

He  sat,  o'erlooking  the  slain! 

Next  morning,  you'd  have  wondered 
How  we  had  to  drive  the  spade! 

There,  in  great  trenches  and  holes 

(Ah,  God  rest  their  poor  souls!), 
We  piled  some  fifteen  hundred, 

Where  that  last  charge  was  made! 
Sad  enough,  I  must  say. 

No  mother  to  mourn  and  search, 
No  priest  to  bless  or  to  pray  — 
We  buried  them  where  they  lay, 

Without  a  rite  of  the  church  — 
But  our  eagle,  all  that  day, 

Stood  solemn  and  still  on  his  perch. 

'T  is  many  a  stormy  day 

Since,  out  of  the  cold  bleak  north, 

Our  great  war-eagle  sailed  forth 

To  swoop  o'er  battle  and  fray. 

Many  and  many  a  day 

O'er  charge  and  storm  hath  he  wheeled, 

Foray  and  foughten  field, 

Tramp,  and  volley,  and  rattle!  — 

Over  crimson  trench  and  turf, 

Over  climbing  clouds  of  surf, 


Through  tempest  and  cannon-wrack, 
Have  his  terrible  pinions  whirled 
(A  thousand  fields  of  battle! 
A  million  leagues  of  foam!);  — 
But  our  bird  shall  yet  come  back, 
He  shall  soar  to  his  eyrie-home, 
And  his  thunderous  wings  be  furled, 
In  the  gaze  of  a  gladdened  world, 
On  the  nation's  loftiest  dome. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 

One  more  struggle  closed  the  campaign.  On  De 
cember  29,  1862,  the  armies  of  Bragg  and  Rose- 
crans  met  at  Murfreesboro,  Tenn.,  and  for  four 
days  a  desperate  battle  raged,  which  ended  finally 
in  the  Confederates  falling  back  and  leaving  their 
antagonists  in  possession  of  the  field. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   MURFREESBORO 

[December  31,  1862] 

ERE  Murfreesboro's  thunders  rent  the  air  — 
With  cannon  booming  'mid  the  trumpet's 

blare  — 

Cane  Hill  and  David  Mills,  stern  battles,  too. 
Had  carried  death  to  hosts  in  Gray  and  Blue. 
But  here,  more  deadly,  war's  wild  torrent 

rushed, 

And  victory,  at  first,  the  Rebels  flushed. 
The  "right  wing"  gone,  and  troops  in  panic, 

lo! 

The  battle  seemed  already  lost.  But,  No. 
Brave    Rosecrans    cried    out  —  "Now    stop 

retreat ! 

We'll  turn  to  victory  this  sore  defeat! 
We  must  and  shall  this  battle  —  Soldiers !  — 

win! 

Now  silence  yonder  batt'ry,  to  begin! 
And  all  re-form  and  meet  the  yelling  foe! 
Stand  firm  and  fire  a  volley!   Back  he'll  go. 
If  not,  present  your  bayonets,  and  Charge! 
'T  is  needless  on  these  orders  to  enlarge; 
But  —  Comrades !  —  here  we  conquer  or  we 

die!" 

And  all  that  Rosecrans  desired  was  done; 
And  Murfreesboro's  battle  thus  was  won. 
Hail !  to  that  New  Year's  Day  in  'Sixty-three, 
And  to  that  morrow  which  brought  victory. 
Hail !  to  the  courage  of  the  Boys  in  Blue, 
Who  fought  so  grandly,  to  their  Country  true. 

KlNAHAN    CORNWALLIS. 


Among  the  wounded,  on  the  Confederate  side, 
was  Isaac  Giffen,  a  native  of  East  Tennessee.  He 
was  terribly  injured,  and  was  taken  by  Dr. 


460 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Francis  O.  Ticknor  into  his  home  and  nursed  back 
to  life.  He  fell  in  one  of  the  battles  before  Atlanta. 

LITTLE  GIFFEN 

Our  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire, 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene 
(Eighteenth  battle  and  he  sixteen)  — 
Spectre  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

"Take  him  —  and  welcome!"  the  surgeons 

said, 

"Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead!" 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  on  the  summer  air; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed  — 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  bated  breath  — 
Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch; 
And  still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  would  n't  die. 

And  did  n't.   Nay,  more !   in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write. 
"Dear  Mother,"  at  first  of  course;   and  then 
"Dear  Captain,"  inquiring  about  "  the  men." 
Captain's  answer:    "Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war  one  day : 

"  Johnston 's  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say !  " 

Little  GifFen  was  up  and  away ; 

A  tear  —  his  first  —  as  he  bade  good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 

"I'll  write,  if  spared!"  There  was  news  of 

the  fight; 
But  none  of  GifFen  —  he  did  not  write. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 

With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear. 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I  'd  give  the  best,  on  his  bended  knee, 

The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry, 

For  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR. 

Both  the  Union  and  Confederate  armies  were 
in  need  of  rest  and  reorganization,  and  for  a  time 
hostilities  ceased.  Grant  paused  to  collect  his 
forces  and  to  prepare  for  a  manoeuvre  of  the  first 
importance. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient.  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms. 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 

And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot; 
But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 

And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 

Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm; 
Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 

She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 

The  fires  that  blast  and  burn; 
For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 

She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 

The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 

And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 

Oh,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear! 

Above  this  stormy  din. 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


READY 


461 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE   COAST   AND   THE    RIVER 


At  the  opening  of  the  Civil  War,  the  United 
States  had  proclaimed  a  blockade  of  all  Southern 
ports.  But  places  like  Pamlico  Sound  and  Port 
Koyal  had  so  many  outlets  that  they  could  not  be 
blockaded  effectually,  and  finally,  in  November, 
1 861,  a  combined  sea  and  land  attack  captured  the 
latter  place  and  gave  the  Union  fleet  a  good 
harbor  in  the  South. 

AT  PORT  ROYAL 

[November  7,  18811 

T.IE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song: 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  west  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate 
The  darning  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles: 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 


The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds: 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  campaign  along  the  North  Carolina  coast, 
was  vigorously  pressed,  and  fort  after  fort  was 
captured,  until  the  Northern  troops  were  so  firmly 
in  possession  that  their  control  of  that  portion  of 
the  coast  was  never  afterwards  seriously  threat 
ened. 

READY 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 

A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
And  lay  at  the  right  of  Rodman's  Point, 

With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid; 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire, 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 

Of  the  boat;  and  the  captain  said: 
"If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured. 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead!" 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

No  slavish  soul  had  he: 
"Somebody's  got  to  die,  boys, 
And  it  might  as  well  be  me!" 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side: 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 

As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free;  — 

But  there  was  n't  a  man  of  them  that  day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he ! 

PHCEBE  CART. 

Especially  important  was  the  capture  of  New- 
berne,  on  the  Neuse  River,  where  the  Confeder 
ates  were  strongly  intrenched.  The  Union  forces 
under  Burnside  advanced  to  the  attack  on  the 
morning  of  March  14,  1862,  and  succeeded  in 
carrying  the  works.  The  loss  on  both  sides  was 


462 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


heavy,  and  would  have  been  heavier  still  on  the 
Union  side,  but  for  the  quick  wit  of  Kady  Brownell. 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  REGI 
MENT 

(FIFTH  RHODE  ISLAND) 
[March  14,  1862] 

WHO  with  the  soldiers  was  stanch  danger- 
sharer,  — 
Marched  in  the  ranks  through  the  shriek  of 

the  shell  ? 

Who  was  their  comrade,  their  brave  color- 
bearer? 
Who  but  the  resolute  Kady  Brownell ! 

Over  the  marshland  and  over  the  highland. 
Where'er  the  columns  wound,  meadow  or 

dell, 
Fared    she,   this   daughter   of   little    Rhode 

Island,  — 
She,  the  intrepid  one,  Kady  Brownell ! 

While  the  mad  rout  at  Manassas  was  surging, 
When  those  around  her  fled  wildly,  or  fell, 

And  the  bold  Beauregard  onward  was  urging, 
Who  so  undaunted  as  Kady  Brownell! 

When   gallant    Burnside   made   dash    upon 

Newberne. 
Sailing  the  Neuse  'gainst  the  sweep  of  the 

swell. 
Watching  the  flag  on  the  heaven's  broad  blue 

burn. 
Who  higher  hearted  than  Kady  Brownell  ? 

In  the  deep  slough  of  the  springtide  debark 
ing, 

Toiling  o'er  leagues  that  are  weary  to  tell, 
Time  with  the  sturdiest  soldiery  marking, 
Forward,  straight  forward,   strode  Kady 
Brownell. 

Reaching  the  lines  where  the  army  was  form 
ing, 

Forming  to  charge  on  those  ramparts  of  hell, 
When  from   the  wood  came  her  regiment 

swarming, 

What    did    she    see    there  —  this    Kady 
Brownell  ? 

See!  why  she  saw  that  their  friends  thought 

them  foemen; 
Muskets  were  levelled,  and  cannon  as  well! 


Save  them  from  direful  destruction  would  no 

men? 

Nay,    but    this    woman    would,  —  Kady 
Brownell ! 

Waving  her  banner  she  raced  for  the  clearing; 

Fronted  them  all,  with  her  flag  as  a  spell; 
Ah,  what  a  volley  —  a  volley  of  cheering  — 

Greeted  the  heroine,  Kady  Brownell! 

Gone  (and  thank  God !)  are  those  red  days  of 

slaughter ! 

Brethren  again  we  in  amity  dwell; 
Just   one   more   cheer   for   the   Regiment's 

Daughter !  — 

Just  one  more  cheer  for  her,  Kady  Brownell ! 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

The  Federals  had  succeeded  in  partially  de 
stroying  the  navy  yard  at  Norfolk  at  the  outbreak 
of  the  war,  but  the  Confederates  succeeded  in 
raising  one  vessel,  the  Merrimac.  This  they  re 
built,  converted  into  an  iron-clad,  armed  with  ten 
rifled  guns,  and  named  the  Virginia.  A  cast-iron 
ram  was  fitted  to  the  bow.  The  vessel  was  com 
pleted  in  March,  1862,  and  on  the  8th  cast  loose 
and  steamed  down  the  river. 

THE  TURTLE 

[March  8,  1862J 

CAESAR,  afloat  with  his  fortunes! 

And  all  the  world  agog 
Straining  its  eyes 
At  a  thing  that  lies 

In  the  water,  like  a  log! 
It's  a  weasel!  a  whale! 
I  see  its  tail! 

It's  a  porpoise!  a  pollywog! 

Tarnation!  it's  a  turtle! 

And  blast  my  bones  and  skin, 
My  hearties,  sink  her, 
Or  else  you'll  think  her 

A  regular  terror-pin! 

The  frigate  poured  a  broadside! 

The  bombs  they  whistled  well, 
But  —  hit  old  Nick 
With  a  sugar  stick! 

It  did  n't  phase  her  shell! 

Pijf,  from  the  creature's  larboard  — 
And  dipping  along  the  water 

A  bullet  hissed 

From  a  wreath  of  mist 
Into  a  Doodle's  quarter! 


THE  ATTACK 


463 


Raff,  from  the  creature's  starboard  — 

Rip,  from  his  ugly  snorter, 
And  the  Congress  and 
The  Cumberland 

Sunk,  and  nothing  —  shorter. 

Now,  here's  to  you,  Virginia, 
And  you  are  bound  to  win! 

By  your  rate  of  bobbing  round 
And  your  way  of  pitchin'  in  — 

For  you  are  a  cross 

Of  the  old  sea-hoss 
And  a  regular  terror-pin. 

At  Newport  News  lay  the  United  States  50-gun 
frigate  Congress,  the  24-gun  sloop  Cumberland, 
and  the  frigates  St.  Lawrence,  Roanoke,  and 
Minnesota.  In  command  of  the  Cumberland  was 
Lieutenant  George  Upham  Morris,  and  at  noon  the 
Merrimac  was  seen  from  the  Cumberland's  deck 
advancing  to  the  attack.  Shot  and  shell  were 
poured  upon  her  without  effect.  She  steamed 
straight  on  and  plunged  her  ram  into  the  Cum 
berland's  side.  Morris  fought  his  ship  until  she 
sank  under  him. 

THE  ATTACK 

[March  8,  1862) 

IN  Hampton  Roads,  the  airs  of  March  were 

bland. 
Peace  on  the  deck  and  in  the  fortress  sleep- 

.  >ng, 

Till,  in  the  look-out  of  the  Cumberland, 
The  sailor,  with  his  well-poised  glass  in  hand. 
Descried  the  iron  island  downward  creep 
ing. 

A  sudden  wonder  seized  on  land  and  bay, 
And  Tumult,  with  her  train,  was  there  to 

follow; 

For  still  the  stranger  kept  its  seaward  way, 
Looking  a  great  leviathan  blowing  spray, 
Seeking  with  steady  course  his  ocean  wal 
low. 

And  still  it  came,  and  largened  on  the  sight; 

A  floating  monster;    ugly  and  gigantic; 
In  shape,  a  wave,  with  long  and  shelving 

height, 
As  if  a  mighty  billow,  heaved  at  night. 

Should  turn  to  iron  in  the  mid-Atlantic. 

Then  ship  and   fortress  gazed  with  anxious 

stare, 

Until  the   Cumberland's  cannon,   silence 
breaking, 


Thundered    its   guardian   challenge,    "Who 

comes  there?" 

But,  like  a  rock-flung  echo  in  the  air, 
The  shot  rebounded,  no  impression  making. 

Then  roared  a  broadside;    though  directed 

well, 
On,  like  a  nightmare,  moved  the  shape 

defiant ; 

The  tempest  of  our  pounding  shot  and  shell 
Crumbled  to  harmless  nothing,  thickly  fell 
From  off  the  sounding  armor  of  the  giant ! 

Unchecked,  still  onward  through  the  storm  it 

broke, 

With  beak  directed  at  the  vessel's  centre; 
Then  through  the  constant  cloud  of  sulphur 
ous  smoke 

Drove,  till  it  struck  the  warrior's  wall  of  oak. 
Making  a  gateway  for  the  waves  to  enter. 

Struck,  and  to  note  the  mischief  done,  with 
drew, 

And  then,  with  all  a  murderer's  impatience, 
Rushed  on  again,  crushing  her  ribs  anew, 
Cleaving  the  noble  hull  well-nigh  in  two, 

And  on  it  sped  its  fiery  imprecations. 

Swift  through  the  vessel  swept  the  drowning 

swell, 
With   splash,   and   rush,   and   guilty  rise 

appalling; 
While  sinking  cannon  rung  their  own  loud 

knell. 
Then,  cried  the  traitor,  from  his  sulphurous 

cell, 
"Do  you  surrender?"    Oh,  those  words 

were  galling! 

How  snake  our  captain  to  his  comrades  then  ? 

It  was  a  shout  from  out  a  soul  of  splendor, 
Echoed  from  lofty  maintop,  and  again 
Between-decks,  from  the  lips  of  dying  men, 

"Sink!    sink,  boys,  sink!    but  never  say 
surrender!" 

Down  went  the  ship!    Down,  down;    but 

never  down 

Her  sacred  flag  to  insolent  dictator. 
Weep    for   the    patriot   heroes,    doomed    to 

drown; 

Pledge  to  the  sunken  Cumberland  s  renown. 
She  sank,  thank  God !   unsoiled  by  foot  of 
traitor! 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


464 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

[March  8,  1862] 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs. 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"   the  rebel  cries 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies: 
"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 
Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 


Ho !   brave  land !   with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND 

[March  8,  1862] 

"STAND  to  your  guns,  men!"  Morris  cried. 

Small  need  to  pass  the  word; 
Our  men  at  quarters  ranged  themselves, 

Before  the  drum  was  heard. 

And  then  began  the  sailors'  jests: 

"What  thing  is  that,  I  say?  " 
"A  'long-shore  meeting-house  adrift 

Is  standing  down  the  bay!" 

A  frown  came  over  Morris'  face; 

The  strange,  dark  craft  he  knew; 
"That  is  the  iron  Merrimac, 

Manned  by  a  rebel  crew. 

"So  shot  your  guns,  and  point  them  straight; 

Before  this  day  goes  by, 
We'll  try  of  what  her  metal's  made." 

A  cheer  was  our  reply. 

"  Remember,  boys,  this  flag  of  ours 

Has  seldom  left  its  place; 
And  where  it  falls,  the  deck  it  strikes 

Is  covered  with  disgrace. 

"I  ask  but  this:   or  sink  or  swim, 

Or  live  or  nobly  die. 
My  last  sight  upon  earth  may  be 

To  see  that  ensign  fly!" 

Meanwhile  the  shapeless  iron  mass 

Came  moving  o'er  the  wave, 
As  gloomy  as  a  passing  hearse, 

As  silent  as  the  grave. 

Her  ports  were  closed,  from  stem  to  stern 

No  sign  of  life  appeared. 
Wre  wondered,  questioned,  strained  our  eyes. 

Joked,  —  everything  but  feared. 

She  reached  our  range.  Our  broadside  rang, 

Our  heavy  pivots  roared; 
And  shot  and  shell,  a  fire  of  hell, 

Against  her  sides  we  poured. 


ON   BOARD  THE   CUMBERLAND 


465 


God's  mercy!  from  her  sloping  roof 

The  iron  tempest  glanced, 
As  hail  bounds  from  a  cottage-thatch, 

And  round  her  leaped  and  danced; 

Or,  when  against  her  dusky  hull 

We  struck  a  fair,  full  blow. 
The  mighty,  solid  iron  globes 

Were  crumbled  up  like  snow. 

On,  on,  with  fast  increasing  speed, 

The  silent  monster  came; 
Though  all  our  starboard  battery 

Was  one  long  line  of  flame. 

She  heeded  not,  nor  gun  she  fired, 

Straight  on  our  bow  she  bore; 
Through  riving  plank  and  crashing  frame 

Her  furious  way  she  tore. 

Alas!  our  beautiful,  keen  bow, 

That  in  the  fiercest  blast 
So  gently  folded  back  the  seas. 

They  hardly  felt  we  passed! 

Alas!  Alas!  My  Cumberland, 

That  ne'er  knew  grief  before, 
To  be  so  gored,  to  feel  so  deep 

The  tusk  of  that  sea-boar! 

Once  more  she  backward  drew  a  space, 

Once  more  our  side  she  rent; 
Then,  in  the  wantonness  of  hate, 

Her  broadside  through  us  sent. 

The  dead  and  dying  round  us  lay, 

But  our  foeman  lay  abeam; 
Her  open  portholes  maddened  us; 

We  fired  with  shout  and  scream. 

We  felt  our  vessel  settling  fast, 

We  knew  our  time  was  brief; 
"The  pumps,  the  pumps!"    But  they  who 
pumped, 

And  fought  not,  wept  with  grief. 

"Oh,  keep  us  but  an  hour  afloat! 

Oh,  give  us  only  time 
To  be  the  instruments  of  heaven 

Against  the  traitors'  crime!" 

From  captain  down  to  powder-boy. 

No  hand  was  idle  then; 
Two  soldiers,  but  by  chance  aboard, 

Fought  on  like  sailor-men. 


And  when  a  gun's  crew  lost  a  hand, 
Some  bold  marine  stepped  out. 

And  jerked  his  braided  jacket  off, 
And  hauled  the  gun  about. 

Our  forward  magazine  was  drowned; 

And  up  from  the  sick-bay 
Crawled  out  the  wounded,  red  with  blood, 

And  round  us  gasping  lay. 

Yes,  cheering,  calling  us  by  name, 

Struggling  with  failing  breath, 
To  keep  their  shipmates  at  the  port, 

While  glory  strove  with  death. 

With  decks  afloat,  and  powder  gone, 

The  last  broadside  we  gave 
From  the  guns'  heated  iron  lips 

Burst  out  beneath  the  wave. 

So  sponges,  rammers,  and  handspikes  — 
As  men-of-war's  men  should  — 

We  placed  within  their  proper  racks. 
And  at  our  quarters  stood. 

"Up  to  the  spar-deck!  Save  yourselves!" 
Cried  Selfridge.   "Up.  my  men! 

God  grant  that  some  of  us  may  live 
To  fight  yon  ship  again!" 

We  turned  —  we  did  not  like  to  go; 

Yet  staying  seemed  but  vain, 
Knee-deep  in  water;  so  we  left; 

Some  swore,  some  groaned  with  pain. 

We  reached  the  deck.  Here  Randall  stood : 

"Another  turn,  men  —  so!" 
Calmly  he  aimed  his  pivot-gun: 

"Now,  Tenney,  let  her  go!" 

It  did  our  sore  hearts  good  to  hear 

The  song  our  pivot  sang, 
As  rushing  on,  from  wave  to  wave, 

The  whirring  bomb-shell  sprang. 

Brave  Randall  leaped  upon  the  gun, 

And  waved  his  cap  in  sport; 
"Well  done!  well  aimed!  I  saw  that  shell 

Go  through  an  open  port." 

It  was  our  last,  our  deadliest  shot; 

The  deck  was  overflown; 
The  poor  ship  staggered,  lurched  to  port, 

And  gave  a  living  groan. 


466 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Down,  down,  as  headlong  through  the  waves 

Our  gallant  vessel  rushed, 
A  thousand  gurgling,  watery  sounds 

Around  my  senses  gushed. 

Then  I  remember  little  more; 

One  look  to  heaven  I  gave, 
Where,  like  an  angel's  wing,  I  saw 

Our  spotless  ensign  wave. 

I  tried  to  cheer,  I  cannot  say 

Whether  I  swam  or  sank; 
A  blue  mist  closed  around  my  eyes, 

And  everything  was  blank. 

When  I  awoke,  a  soldier-lad, 

All  dripping  from  the  sea, 
With  two  great  tears  upon  his  cheeks, 

Was  bending  over  me. 

I  tried  to  speak.  He  understood 

The  wish  I  could  not  speak. 
He  turned  me.  There,  thank  God !  the  flag 

Still  fluttered  at  the  peak! 

And  there,  while  thread  shall  hang  to  thread, 

O  let  that  ensign  fly! 
The  noblest  constellation  set 

Against  our  northern  sky. 

A  sign  that  we  who  live  may  claim 

The  peerage  of  the  brave; 
A  monument,  that  needs  no  scroll, 

For  those  beneath  the  wave! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

SOME  names  there  are  of  telling  sound, 

Whose  vowelled  syllables  free 
Are  pledge  that  they  shall  ever  live  renowned ; 

Such  seems  to  be 

A  Frigate's  name  (by  present  glory  spanned)  — 
The  Cumberland. 

Sounding  name  as  e'er  was  sung, 
Flowing,  rolling  on  the  tongue  — 
Cumberland!  Cumberland! 

She  warred  and  sunk.  There's  no  denying 
That  she  was  ended  —  quelled ; 

And  yet  her  flag  above  her  fate  is  flying, 
As  when  it  swelled 


Unswallowed    by    the    swallowing    sea:    so 

grand — 
The  Cumberland. 

Goodly  name  as  e'er  was  sung, 
Roundly  rolling  on  the  tongue  — 
Cumberland!  Cumberland! 

What  need  to  tell  how  she  was  fought  — 

The  sinking  flaming  gun  — 
The  gunner  leaping  out  the  port  — 

Washed  back,  undone! 
Her  dead  unconquerably  manned 
The  Cumberland. 

Noble  name  as  e'er  was  sung, 
Slowly  roll  it  on  the  tongue  — 
Cumberland!  Cumberland! 

Long  as  hearts  shall  share  the  flame 
Which  burned  in  that  brave  crew, 
Her  fame  shall   live  —  outlive  the   victor's 

name; 

For  this  is  due. 

Your  flag  and  flag-staff  shall  in  story  stand  — 
Cumberland ! 

Sounding  name  as  e'er  was  sung,  - 
Long  they'll  roll  it  on  the  tongue  — 
Cumberland!  Cumberland! 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


The  Merrimac  then  drew  off  and  subjected  the 
Congress  to  such  a  terrific  fire  that  the  frigate  was 
forced  to  surrender.  After  heavily  damaging  the 
other  vessels  of  the  fleet,  the  Merrimac  withdrew, 
intending  to  complete  their  destruction  in  the 
morning. 

HOW  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT 
DOWN 

[March  8,  1862J 

GRAY  swept  the  angry  waves 
O'er  the  gallant  and  the  true, 

Rolled  high  in  mounded  graves 
O'er  the  stately  frigate's  crew  — 

Over  cannon,  over  deck, 

Over  all  that  ghastly  wreck,  — 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

Such  a  roar  the  waters  rent 

As  though  a  giant  died, 
When  the  wailing  billows  went 

Above  those  heroes  tried; 
And  the  sheeted  foam  leaped  high, 
Like  white  ghosts  against  the  sky,  — 
As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


THE   CRUISE   OF  THE   MONITOR 


467 


O  shrieking  waves  that  gushed 

Above  that  loyal  band, 
Your  cold,  cold  burial  rushed 

O'er  many  a  heart  on  land! 
And  from  ^11  the  startled  North 
A  cry  of  pain  broke  forth, 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  forests  old,  that  gave 

A  thousand  years  of  power 
To  her  lordship  of  the  wave 

And  her  beauty's  regal  dower, 
Bent,  as  though  before  a  blast, 
When  plunged  her  pennoned  mast, 
And  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  grimy  mines  that  sent 

To  her  their  virgin  strength, 
And  iron  vigor  lent 

To  knit  her  lordly  length, 
Wildly  stirred  with  throbs  of  life, 
Echoes  of  that  fatal  strife, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

Beneath  the  ocean  vast, 

Full  many  a  captain  bold, 
By  many  a  rotting  mast, 

And  admiral  of  old, 
Rolled  restless  in  his  grave 
As  he  felt  the  sobbing  wave, 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  stern  Vikings  that  lay 
A  thousand  years  at  rest, 
In  many  a  deep  blue  bay 

Beneath  the  Baltic's  breast, 
Leaped  on  the  silver  sands, 
And  shook  their  rusty  brands, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

But  when,  on  the  morning  of  March  9,  1862,  the 
Merrimac  steamed  out  again  into  Hampton  Roads, 
a  new  antagonist  confronted  her  —  the  Monitor, 
Ericsson's  eccentric  boat,  which  had  arrived  from 
New  York  the  night  before.  The  ships  approached 
each  other,  like  David  and  Goliath.  A  battle  fol 
lowed,  unique  in  naval  warfare,  the  first  duel  of 
ironclads  the  world  had  ever  seen.  It  ended  in  the 
Merrimac  retreating  to  Norfolk,  badly  damaged. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  MONITOR 

[March  9,  1 862) 

OUT  of  a  Northern  city's  bay, 
Neath  lowering  clouds,  one  bleak  March  day, 


Glided  a  craft  —  the  like,  I  ween, 
On  ocean's  crest  was  never  seen 
Since  Noah's  float,  that  ancient  boat, 
Could  o'er  a  conquered  deluge  gloat. 

No  raking  masts,  with  clouds  of  sail, 
Bent  to  the  breeze,  or  braved  the  gale; 
No  towering  chimney's  wreaths  of  smoke 
Betrayed  the  mighty  engine's  stroke; 
But  low  and  dark,  like  the  crafty  shark, 
Moved  in  the  waters  this  novel  bark. 

The  fishers  stared  as  the  flitting  sprite 
Passed  their  huts  in  the  misty  light, 
Bearing  a  turret  huge  and  black, 
And  said,  "The  old  sea-serpent's  back, 
Carting  away  by  light  of  day, 
Uncle  Sam's  fort  from  New  York  Bay." 

Forth  from  a  Southern  city's  dock, 
Our  frigates'  strong  blockade  to  mock, 
Crept  a  monster  of  rugged  build, 
The  work  of  crafty  hands,  well  skilled  — 
Old  Merrimac,  with  an  iron  back 
Wooden  ships  would  find  hard  to  crack. 

Straight  to  where  the  Cumberland  lay, 
The  mail-clad  monster  made  its  way; 
Its  deadly  prow  struck  deep  and  sure, 
And  the  hero's  fighting  days  were  o'er. 
Ah !  many  the  braves  who  found  their  graves, 
With  that  good  ship,  beneath  the  waves ! 

But  with  their  fate  is  glory  wrought. 
Those  hearts  of  oak  like  heroes  fought 
With  desperate  hope  to  win  the  day, 
And  crush  the  foe  that  'fore  them  lay. 
Our  flag  up  run,  the  last-fired  gun, 
Tokens  how  bravely  duty  was  done. 

Flushed  with  success,  the  victor  flew, 
Furious,  the  startled  squadron  through: 
Sinking,  burning,  driving  ashore, 
Until  that  Sabbath  day  was  o'er, 
Resting  at  night  to  renew  the  fight 
With  vengeful  ire  by  morning's  light. 

Out  of  its  den  it  burst  anew, 

When  the  gray  mist  the  sun  broke  through, 

Steaming  to  where,  in  clinging  sands, 

The  frigate  Minnesota  stands, 

A  sturdy  foe  to  overthrow, 

But  in  woful  plight  to  receive  a  blow. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


But  see!    Beneath  her  bow  appears 
A  champion  no  danger  fears; 
A  pigmy  craft,  that  seems  to  be 
To  this  new  lord  who  rules  the  sea, 
Like  David  of  old  to  Goliath  bold  — 
Youth  and  giant,  by  Scripture  told. 

Round  the  roaring  despot  playing, 

With  willing  spirit,  helm  obeying, 

Spurning  the  iron  against  it  hurled, 

While  belching  turret  rapid  whirled, 

And  swift  shot's  seethe,  with  smoky  wreath, 

Told  that  the  shark  was  showing  his  teeth  — 

The  Monitor  fought.   In  grim  amaze 
The  Merrimacs  upon  it  gaze, 
Cowering  'neath  the  iron  hail, 
Crashing  into  their  coat  of  mail; 
They  swore  "  this  craft,  the  devil's  shaft, 
Looked  like  a  cheese-box  on  a  raft." 

Hurrah!  little  giant  of  '62! 
Bold  Worden  with  his  gallant  crew 
Forces  the  fight;  the  day  is  won; 
Back  to  his  den  the  monster's  gone 
W7ith  crippled  claws  and  broken  jaws, 
Defeated  in  a  reckless  cause. 

Hurrah  for  the  master  mind  that  wrought, 
With  iron  hand,  this  iron  thought! 
Strength  and  safety  with  speed  combined, 
Ericsson's  gift  to  all  mankind ; 
To  curb  abuse,  and  chains  to  loose, 
Hurrah  for  the  Monitor's  famous  cruise! 
GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 

The  reign  of  terror  created  by  the  Merrimac  was 
at  an  end,  and  the  ship  herself  did  not  last  long. 
On  May  10,  1862,  the  Confederates  were  forced  to 
abandon  Norfolk,  and  the  Merrimac  was  blown 
up.  On  December  30  the  Monitor  foundered  in  a 
gale  off  Hatteras. 

THE  SINKING  OF  THE  MERRIMACK 

[May,  1862] 

GONE  down  in  the  flood,  and  gone  out  in  the 

flame! 
What  else  could  she  do,  with  her  fair  Northern 

name? 

Her  font  was  a  river  whose  last  drop  is  free: 
That  river  ran  boiling  with  wrath  to  the  sea, 
To  hear  of  her  baptismal  blessing  profaned ; 
A  name  that  was  Freedom's,  hy  treachery 

stained. 


'T  was  the  voice  of  our  free  Northern  moun 
tains  that  broke 

In  the  sound  of  her  guns,  from  her  stout  ribs 
of  oak : 

'T  was  the  might  of  the  free  Northern  hand 
you  could  feel 

In  her  sweep  and  her  moulding,  from  top 
mast  to  keel: 

When  they  made  her  speak  treason  (does 
Hell  know  of  worse?), 

How  her  strong  timbers  shook  with  the  shame 
of  her  curse! 

Let  her  go !  Should  a  deck  so  polluted  again 
Ever  ring  to  the  tread  of  our  true  Northern 

men? 

Let  the  suicide-ship  thunder  forth,  to  the  air 
And  the  sea  she  has  blotted,  her  groan  of 

despair ! 
Let  her  last  heat  of  anguish  throb  out  into 

flame! 
Then  sink  them  together,  —  the  ship  and  thfc 

name ! 

LUCY  LARCOM. 

The  work  of  the  gunboats  on  the  Mississippi 
at  the  investment  of  Fort  Henry  and  Fort  Donel- 
son  has  been  already  mentioned.  In  April,  1862, 
a  blow  was  aimed  at  the  very  heart  of  the  Con 
federacy,  when  a  fleet  under  command  of  David 
Glasgow  Farragut  advanced  up  the  river  against 
the  formidable  forts  below  New  Orleans.  After 
five  days'  bombardment,  the  fleet  ran  past  the 
forts  and  attacked  the  Confederate  ships  before 
the  city. 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT 

[April  18,  1862) 

Do  you  know  of  the  dreary  land, 
If  land  such  region  may  seem, 
Where  't  is  neither  sea  nor  strand, 
Ocean,  nor  good,  dry  land, 
But  the  nightmare  marsh  of  a  dream  ? 
Where  the  Mighty  River  his  death-road  takes, 
'Mid  pools  and  windings  that  coil  like  snakes, 
A  hundred  leagues  of  bayous  and  lakes, 
To  die  in  the  great  Gulf  Stream  ? 

No  coast-line  clear  and  true, 
Granite  and  deep-sea  blue, 
On  that  dismal  shore  you  pass, 
Surf-worn  boulder  or  sandy  beach,  — 
But  oooze-flats  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
With  shallows  of  water-grass; 
Reedy  Savannahs,  vast  and  dun, 


THE   RIVER   FIGHT 


469 


Lying  dead  in  the  dim  March  sun : 
Huge,  rotting  trunks  and  roots  that  lie 
Like  the  blackened  bones  of  shapes  gone  by, 
And  miles  of  sunken  morass. 

No  lovely,  delicate  thing 

Of  life  o'er  the  waste  is  seen 

But  the  cayman  couched  by  his  weedy  spring, 

And  the  pelican,  bird  unclean, 

Or  the  buzzard,  flapping  with  heavy  wing, 

Like  an  evil  ghost  o'er  the  desolate  scene. 

Ah  !   many  a  weary  day 

With  our  Leader  there  we  lay. 

In  the  sultry  haze  and  smoke, 

Tugging  our  ships  o'er  the  bar, 

Till  the  spring  was  wasted  far, 

Till  his  brave  heart  almost  broke. 

For  the  sullen  river  seemed 

As  if  our  intent  he  dreamed,  — 

All  his  sallow  mouths  did  spew  and  choke. 

But  ere  April  fully  passed 

All  ground  over  at  last 

And  we  knew  the  die  was  cast,  — 

Knew  the  day  drew  nigh 

To  dare  to  the  end  one  stormy  deed, 

Might  save  the  land  at  her  sorest  need, 

Or  on  the  old  deck  to  die! 

Anchored  we  lay,  —  and  a  morn  the  more, 

To  his  captains  and  all  his  men 

Thus  wrote  our  old  commodore 

(He  was  n't  Admiral  then) :  — 

"GENERAL  ORDERS: 

Send  your  to'gallant  masts  down, 

Rig  in  each  flying  jib-boom ! 

Clear  all  ahead  for  the  loom 

Of  traitor  fortress  and  town, 

Or  traitor  fleet  bearing  down. 

"  In  with  your  canvas  high ; 
We  shall  want  no  sail  to  fly! 
Topsail,  foresail,  spanker,  and  jib 
(With  the  heart  of  oak  in  the  oaken  rib), 
Shall  serve  us  to  win  or  die! 

"Trim  every  sail  by  the  head 

(So  shall  you  spare  the  lead), 

Lest  if  she  ground,  your  ship  swing  round, 

Bows  in  shore,  for  a  wreck. 

See  your  grapnels  all  clear  with  pains, 

And  a  solid  kedge  in  your  port  main-chains, 

With  a  whip  to  the  main  yard : 


Drop  it  heavy  and  hard 

When  you  grapple  a  traitor  deck ! 

"On  forecastle  and  on  poop 
Mount  guns,  as  best  you  may  deem. 
If  possible,  rouse  them  up 
(For  still  you  must  bow  the  stream). 
Also  hoist  and  secure  with  stops 
Howitzers  firmly  in  your  tops, 
To  fire  on  the  foe  abeam. 

"Look  well  to  your  pumps  and  hose; 
Have  water  tubs  fore  and  aft, 
For  quenching  flame  in  your  craft, 
And  the  gun  crew's  fiery  thirst. 
See  planks  with  felt  fitted  close, 
To  plug  every  shot-hole  tight. 
Stand  ready  to  meet  the  worst ! 
For,  if  I  have  reckoned  aright, 
They  will  serve  us  shot, 
Both  cold  and  hot, 
Freely  enough  to-night. 

"Mark  well  each  signal  I  make 

(Our  life-long  service  at  stake, 

And  honor  that  must  not  lag!),— 

Whate'er  the  peril  and  awe, 

In  the  battle's  fieriest  flaw, 

Let  never  one  ship  withdraw 

Till  the  orders  come  from  the  flag!" 


Would  you  hear  of  the  river  fight  ? 
It  was  two  of  a  soft  spring  night; 
God's  stars  looked  down  on  all; 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  clinging  breath; 
Up  the  River  of  Death 
Sailed  the  great  Admiral. 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 

Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood  once  and  again,  — 

Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 

Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck. 

Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 

Each  his  line  of  the  Blue  and  Red ; 

Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail; 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 

Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 

That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 

Of  the  seamen  passed  away. 


470 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Tyson  conned  our  helm  that  day; 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns. 

What  thought  our  Admiral  then, 

Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day 

(Day  of  renown  and  tears!),  — 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay,  — 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay,  — 

When  a  boy  by  Porter's  side  he  stood, 

Till  deck  and  plank-sheer  were  dyed  with 

blood; 

*T  is  half  a  hundred  years,  — 
Half  a  hundred  years  to  a  day! 

Who  could  fail  with  him  ? 

Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher! 

There  had  you  seen,  by  the  starlight  dim, 

Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim: 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire! 

Right  up  by  the  fort, 

With  her  helm  hard  aport, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain. 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain 
Soon  as  't  was  sundered). 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true. 
Ship  after  ship  went  through, 
Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 
"  Jackson  "  out-thundered ! 

Back  echoed  "Philip!"  ah!  then 

Could  you  have  seen  our  men. 

How  they  sprung  in  the  dim  night  haze, 

To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor! 

How  the  boarders,  with  sponge  and  rammer 

And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzje  ablaze. 

How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout  — 

Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out  — 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways ! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 

'T  was  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 

W7ith  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash. 

But  soon,  upon  either  bow. 

What  with  forts  and  fire-rafts  and  ships 

(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it  now), 

All  pounding  away!  —  and  Porter 

Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar,  — 

'T  was  the  mighty  sound  and  form ! 


(Such  you  see  in  the  far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drought, 
As  day  draws  nigh  to  even. 
Arching  from  north  to  south. 
Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 
The  great  black  bow  comes  on, 
Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven,  — 
When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 
And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 
Rolls  down  the  Amazon!) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 

Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 

Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire,  — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 

(We  had  often  had  the  like  before.) 

VT  was  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 

Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore; 

And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round 

(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound), 

Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 

Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground ! 

'T  was  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Fort, 
And  straightway  a  rascal  ram 
(She  was  shaped  like  the  Devil's  dam) 
Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 
And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 
Right  alongside  of  us  to  port. 
It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length,  — 
A  huge,  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit! 
Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 
Belching  flame  red  and  grim, 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad : 
But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter, 
In  the  acting  than  in  the  telling; 
There  was  no  singing  out  or  yelling, 
Or  any  fussing  and  fretting, 
No  stampede,  in  short; 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 
All  afire  on  our  port  quarter, 
Hammocks  ablaze  in  the  netting, 
Flames  spouting  in  at  every  port, 
Our  fourth  cutter  burning  at  the  davit 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it). 

In  a  twinkling,  the  flames  had  risen 

Halfway  to  maintop  and  mizzen. 

Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes! 

Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 

And   the  deep,   steaming   pumps  throbbed 

under, 
Sending  a  ceaseless  flow. 


THE   RIVER    FIGHT 


Our  topmen,  a  dauntless  crowd, 

Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud: 

There  ('t  was  a  wonder !) 

The  burning  ratlines  and  strands 

They  quenched  with  their  bare,  hard  hands; 

But  the  great  guns  below 

Never  silenced  their  thunder. 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 
When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 
And  under  headway  once  more, 
The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 
The  point.   If  we  had  it  hot  before, 
'T  was  now  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  long,  loud,  thundering  roar,  — 
Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 
And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck. 
And  to  save  the  land  we  loved  so  well, 
You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun-deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 

For  above  all  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 
Smoke  and  thunder  alone 
(But,  down  in  the  sick-bay. 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 
There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan). 

And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 
Drearily  blinking 

O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon  smoke, 
That  ever  such  morning  dulls,  — 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 
On  fire  and  sinking! 

Now,  up  the  river !  —  though  mad  Chalmette 
Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet, 
Small  helm  we  gave  her  our  course  to  steer,  — 
'T  was  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 
With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 
Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered  the 
stream. 

The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high. 

Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky! 

Then  down  to  the  depths  of  the  turbid  flood,  — 

Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud ! 

The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 

A  mighty  bonfire  from  off  the  town; 

And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 

A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  ablaze,  — 

The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames 


(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  trembling  frames!), 
And   the  smaller  fry   that   Treason   would 

spawn 
Are  lighting  Algiers  like  an  angry  dawn! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn. 
Fired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built! 
So  to  ashes  forever  turn 
The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt! 

But  as  we  neared  the  city, 
By  field  and  vast  plantation 
(Ah !  millstone  of  our  nation !), 
With  wonder  and  with  pity. 
What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toiling  places, 
Strangely  and  sadly  eyed. 
Haply  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 
Deeming  deliverance  near 
(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer!). 

And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 
To  greet  the  victor  brave, 
One  flag  did  welcome  wave  — 
Raised,  ah  me!  by  a  wretched  hand, 
All  outworn  on  our  cruel  land,  — 
The  withered  hand  of  a  slave ! 

But  all  along  the  levee. 
In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain 
(By  this  't  was  pouring  heavy), 
Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train, 
A  strange  and  frenzied  time! 
There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain, 
Curses,  howls,  and  hisses, 
Out  of  Hate's  black  abysses,  — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 
All  in  vain  —  all  in  vain! 

For  from  the  hour  that  the  Rebel  Stream 
With  the  Crescent  City  lying  abeam, 
Shuddered  under  our  keel, 
Smit  to  the  heart  with  self-struck  sting, 
Slavery  died  in  her  scorpion-ring 
And  Murder  fell  on  his  steel. 

'T  is  well  to  do  and  dare ; 
But  ever  may  grateful  prayer 
Follow,  as  aye  it  ought, 
When  the  good  fight  is  fought, 
When  the  true  deed  is  done. 
Aloft  in  heaven's  pure  light 
(Deep  azure  crossed  on  white), 
Our  fair  Church  pennant  waves 


472 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


O'er  a  thousand  thankful  braves, 
Bareheaded  in  God's  bright  sun. 

Lord  of  mercy  and  frown, 
Ruling  o'er  sea  and  shore, 
Send  us  such  scene  once  more! 
All  in  line  of  battle 
When  the  black  ships  bear  down 
On  tyrant  fort  and  town, 
'Mid  cannon  cloud  and  rattle; 
And  the  great  guns  once  more 
Thunder  back  the  roar 
Of  the  traitor  walls  ashore, 
And  the  traitor  flags  come  down. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

[April  24,  18621 

JUST  as  the  hour  was  darkest, 

Just  between  night  and  day. 
From  the  flag-ship  shone  the  signal, 

"Get  the  squadrons  under  way." 

Not  a  sound  but  the  tramp  of  sailors, 
And  the  wheeling  capstan's  creak, 

Arose  from  the  busy  vessels 
As  the  anchors  came  apeak. 

The  men  worked  on  in  silence, 

With  never  a  shout  or  cheer, 
Till  'twas  whispered  from  bow  to  quarter: 

"Start  forward!  all  is  clear." 

Then  groaned  the  ponderous  engine, 
Then  floundered  the  whirling  screw; 

And  as  ship  joined  ship,  the  comrades 
Their  lines  of  battle  drew. 

The  moon  through  the  fog  was  casting 

A  blur  of  lurid  light, 
As  the  captain's  latest  order 

Was  flashed  into  the  night. 

"  Steam  on !  and  whatever  fortune 

May  follow  the  attack, 
Sink  with  your  bows  still  northward 

No  vessel  must  turn  back!" 

'T  was  hard  when  we  heard  that  order 

To  smother  a  rising  shout; 
For  it  wakened  the  life  within  us, 

And  we  burned  to  give  it  out. 


All  wrapped  in  the  foggy  darkness, 

Brave  Bailey  moved  ahead; 
And  stem  after  stern,  his  gunboats 

To  the  starboard  station  led. 

Next  Farragut's  stately  flag-ship 

To  port  her  head  inclined; 
And  midmost,  and  most  in  danger, 

Bell's  squadron  closed  behind. 

Ah!  many  a  prayer  was  murmured 
For  the  homes  we  ne'er  might  see; 

And  the  silence  and  night  grew  dreadful 
With  the  thought  of  what  must  be. 

For  many  a  tall,  stout  fellow 
Who  stood  at  his  quarters  then. 

In  the  damp  and  dismal  moonlight, 
Never  saw  the  sun  again. 

Close  down  by  the  yellow  river 

In  their  oozy  graves  they  rot ; 
Strange  vines  and  strange  weeds  grow  o'er 
them, 

And  their  far  homes  know  them  not. 

But  short  was  our  time  of  musing; 

For  the  rebel  forts  discerned 
That  the  whole  great  fleet  was  moving, 

And  their  batteries  on  us  turned. 

Then  Porter  burst  out  from  his  mortars, 

In  jets  of  fiery  spray, 
As  if  a  volcano  had  opened 

Where  his  leaf-clad  vessels  lay. 

Howling  and  screeching  and  whizzing 
The  bomb-shells  arched  on  high, 

And  then,  like  gigantic  meteors, 
Dropped  swiftly  from  the  sky. 

Dropped  down  on  the  low,  doomed  fortress 

A  plague  of  iron  death, 
Shattering  earth  and  granite  to  atoms 

With  their  puffs  of  sulphurous  breath. 

The  whole  air  quaked  and  shuddered 
As  the  huge  globes  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  blazing  shores  looked  awful 
As  the  open  gates  of  hell. 

Fort  Jackson  and  Fort  Saint  Pbilip, 

And  the  battery  on  the  right, 
By  this  time  were  flashing  and  thundering 

Out  into  the  murky  night. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 


473 


1  'hrough  the  hulks  and  the  cables,  sundered 

By  the  bold  Itasca's  crew, 
Went  Bailey  in  silence,  though  round  him 

The  shells  and  the  grape-shot  flew. 

No  answer  he  made  to  their  welcome, 

Till  abeam  Saint  Philip  bore, 
Then,  oh,  but  he  sent  them  a  greeting 

In  his  broadsides'  steady  roar! 

Meanwhile,  the  old  man,  in  the  Hartford, 
Had  ranged  to  Fort  Jackson's  side; 

What  a  sight!  he  slowed  his  engines 
Till  he  barely  stemmed  the  tide; 

Yes,  paused  in  that  deadly  tornado 
Of  case-shot  and  shell  and  ball, 

Not  a  cable's  length  from  the  fortress, 
And  he  lay  there,  wood  to  wall. 

Have  you  any  notion,  you  landsmen, 
Who  have  seen  a  field-fight  won, 

Of  canister,  grape-shot,  and  shrapnel 
Hurled  out  from  a  ten-inch  gun? 

I  tell  you,  the  air  is  nigh  solid 

W7ith  the  howling  iron  flight; 
And  't  was  such  a  tempest  blew  o'er  us 

Where  the  Hartford  lay  that  night. 

Perched  aloft  in  the  forward  rigging, 

With  his  restless  eyes  aglow, 
Sat  Farragut,  shouting  his  orders 

To  the  men  who  fought  below. 

And  the  fort's  huge  faces  of  granite 
Were  splintered  and  rent  in  twain, 

And  the  masses  seemed  slowly  melting, 
Like  snow  in  a  torrid  rain. 

Now  quicker  and  quicker  we  fired, 

Till  between  us  and  the  foe 
A  torrent  of  blazing  vapor 

Was  leaping  to  and  fro; 

While  the  fort,  like  a  mighty  caldron, 
Was  boiling  with  flame  and  smoke, 

And  the  stone  flew  aloft  in  fragments, 
And  the  brick  into  powder  broke. 

So  thick  fell  the  clouds  o'er  the  river, 
You  hardly  could  see  your  hand; 

When  we  heard,  from  the  foremast  rigging, 
Oid  Farragut's  sharp  command: 


"  Full  ahead !  Steam  across  to  Saint  Philip  1 
Starboard  battery,  mind  your  aim ! 

Forecastle  there,  shift  your  pivots!  Now, 
Give  them  a  taste  of  the  same!" 

Saint  Philip  grew  faint  in  replying, 
Its  voice  of  thunder  was  drowned; 

"But  ha!  what  is  this?  Back  the  engines ! 
Back,  back,  the  ship  is  aground!" 

Straight  down  the  swift  current  came  sweeping 
A  raft,  spouting  sparks  and  flame; 

Pushed  on  by  an  iron-clad  rebel, 
Under  our  port  side  it  came. 

At  once  the  good  Hartford  was  blazing, 

Below,  aloft,  fore  and  aft. 
"We  are  lost!"  "No,  no;  we  are  moving!" 

Away  whirled  the  crackling  raft. 

The  fire  was  soon  quenched.  One  last  broad 
side 

We  gave  to  the  surly  fort; 
For  above  us  the  rebel  gunboats 

Were  wheeling  like  devils  at  sport. 

And  into  our  vacant  station 

Had  glided  a  bulky  form; 
'T  was  Craven's  stout  Brooklyn,  demanding 

Her  share  of  the  furious  storm. 

We  could  hear  the  shot  of  Saint  Philip 

Ring  on  her  armor  of  chain, 
And  the  crash  of  her  answering  broadside. 

Taking  and  giving  again. 

We  could  hear  the  low  growl  of  Craven, 
And  Lowry's  voice  clear  and  calm. 

While  they  swept  off  the  rebel  ramparts 
As  clean  as  your  open  palm. 

Then  ranging  close  under  our  quarter, 
Out  burst  from  the  smoky  fogs 

The  queen  of  the  waves,  the  Varuna, 
The  ship  of  bold  Charley  Boggs. 

He  waved  his  blue  cap  as  he  passed  us; 

The  blood  of  his  glorious  race, 
Of  Lawrence,  the  hero,  was  burning 

Once  more  in  a  living  face. 

Right  and  left  flashed  his  heavy  pieces, 
Rams,  gunboats  —  it  mattered  no** 

Wherever  a  rebel  flag  floated 
Was  a  target  for  his  shot. 


474 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


All  burning  and  sinking  around  him 

Lay  five  of  the  foe;   but  he, 
The  victor,  seemed  doomed  with   the  van 
quished, 

When  along  dashed  gallant  Lee. 

And  he  took  up  the  bloody  conflict, 

And  so  well  his  part  he  bore, 
That  the  river  ran  fire  behind  him, 

And  glimmered  from  shore  to  shore. 

But  while  powder  would  burn  in  a  cannon, 
Till  the  water  drowned  his  deck, 

Boggs  pounded  away  with  his  pivots 
From  his  slowly  settling  wreck. 

I  think  our  great  captains  in  Heaven, 
As  they  looked  upon  those  deeds, 

W-ere  proud  of  the  flower  of  that  navy, 
Of  which  they  planted  the  seeds. 

Paul  Jones,  the  knight-errant  of  ocean, 

Decatur,  the  lord  of  the  seas, 
Hull,  Lawrence,  and  Bainbridge,  and  Biddle, 

And  Perry,  the  peer  of  all  these! 

If  Porter  beheld  his  descendant, 
With  some  human  pride  on  his  lip, 

I  trust,  through  the  mercy  of  Heaven, 
His  soul  was  forgiven  that  slip. 

And  thou,  living  veteran,  Old  Ironsides, 

The  last  of  the  splendid  line, 
Thou  link  'twixt  the  old  and  new  glory, 

I  know  what  feelings  were  thine! 

When  the  sun  looked  over  the  tree-tops, 
We     found     ourselves  —  Heaven     knows 
how  — 

Above  the  grim  forts;  and  that  instant 
A  smoke  broke  from  Farragut's  bow. 

And  over  the  river  came  floating 
The  sound  of  the  morning  gun; 

And  the  stars  and  stripes  danced  up  the  hal 
yards, 
And  glittered  against  the  sun. 

Oh,  then  what  a  shout  from  the  squadrons! 

As  flag  followed  flag,  till  the  day 
Was  bright  with  the  beautiful  standard, 

And  wild  with  the  victors'  huzza! 

But  three  ships  were  missing.   The  others 
Had  passed  through  that  current  of  flame; 


And  each  scar  on  their  shattered  bulwarks 
Was  touched  by  the  finger  of  Fame. 

Below  us,  the  forts  of  the  rebels 

Lay  in  the  trance  of  despair; 
Above  us,  uncovered  and  helpless, 

New  Orleans  clouded  the  air. 

Again,  in  long  lines  we  went  steaming 
Away  towards  the  city's  smoke; 

And  works  were  deserted  before  us, 
And  columns  of  soldiers  broke. 

In  vain  the  town  clamored  and  struggled; 

The  flag  at  our  peak  ruled  the  hour; 
And  under  its  shade,  like  a  lion, 

Were  resting  the  will  and  the  power. 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


The  Varuna,  after  sinking  five  Confederate  ves 
sels,  was  herself  sunk.  Every  ship  of  the  Federal 
fleet  suffered  severely,  but  on  the  afternoon  of 
April  25,  1862,  the  fleet  dropped  anchor  off  New 
Orleans. 

THE  VARUNA 

[Sunk  April  24,  1862] 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna  ? 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  deeds  she  has 

done? 

Who  shall  not  hear,  while  the  brown  Missis 
sippi 
Rushes  along  from  the  snow  to  the  sun  ? 

Crippled  and  leaking  she  entered  the  battle, 
Sinking  and  burning  she  fought  through  the 

fray; 
Crushed  were  her  sides  and  the  waves  ran 

across  her. 

Ere,  like  a  death-wounded  lion  at  bay, 
Sternly  she  closed  in  the  last  fatal  grapple, 
Then  in  her  triumph  moved  grandly  away. 

Five  of  the  rebels,  like  satellites  round  her, 
Burned  in  her  orbit  of  splendor  and  fear; 

One,  like  the  Pleiad  of  mystical  story. 
Shot,    terror-stricken,    beyond   her   dread 
sphere. 

We  who  are  waiting  with  crowns  for  the  vic 
tors, 

Though  we  should  offer  the  wealth  of  our 
store, 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 


475 


Load  the  Varuna  from  deck  down  to  kelson, 
Still  would  be  niggard,  such  tribute  to  pour 
On  courage  so  boundless.   It  beggars  posses 
sion,  — 

It  knocks  for  just  payment  at  heaven's  bright 
door! 

Cherish  the  heroes  who  fought  the  Varuna; 

Treat  them  as  kings  if  they  honor  your  way ; 
Succor  and  comfort  the  sick  and  the  wounded ; 

Oh !  for  the  dead  let  us  all  kneel  to  pray ! 
GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


New  Orleans  was  panic-stricken.  Many  of  the 
better  class  of  citizens  fled,  and  the  town  was 
Kiven  over  to  the  mob.  Drums  were  beaten,  sol 
diers  scampered  hither  and  thither,  and  women 
ran  through  the  streets  demanding  that  the  city  be 
burned.  The  cotton  on  the  levee  was  set  on  fire, 
and  the  torch  was  put  to  the  wharves  and  shipping. 
Finally,  on  April  29,  1862,  after  a  lot  of  silly  rho- 
domontade,  the  city  surrendered. 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  NEW 
ORLEANS 

[April  29,  1862] 

Ar.L  day  long  the  guns  at  the  forts, 
With  far-off  thunders  and  faint  retorts, 
Had  told  the  city  that  down  the  bay 
The  fleet  of  Farragut's  war-ships  lay; 
But  now  St.  Philip  and  Jackson  grim 
Were  black  and  silent  below  the  rim 
Of  the  southern  sky,  where  the  river  sped 
Like  a  war-horse  scenting  the  fight  ahead. 

And  we  of  the  city,  the  women,  and  men 
Too  old  for  facing  the  battle  then, 
Saw  all  the  signs  of  our  weakness  there 
With  a  patience  born  of  a  great  despair. 
The  river  gnawed  its  neglected  bank, 
The  weeds  in  the  unused  streets  grew  rank, 
And  flood  and  famine  threatened  those 
Who  stayed  there  braving  greater  woes. 

Under  the  raking  of  shot  and  shell 

The  river  fortresses  fighting  fell; 

The  Chalmette  batteries  then  boomed  forth, 

But  the  slim,  straight  spars  of  the  ships  of  the 

North 

Moved  steadily  on  in  their  river-road, 
Like  a  tide  that  up  from  the  ocean  flowed. 

Then  load  after  load,  and  pile  upon  pile, 
Lining  the  wharves  for  many  a  mile, 


Out  of  the  cotton-presses  and  yards, 
With  a  grim  industry  which  naught  retards, 
The  bales  were  carried  and  swiftly  placed 
By  those  who  knew  there  was  need  of  haste, 
And  the  torch  was  laid  to  the  cotton  so. 
Up  from  that  bonfire  the  glare  and  glow 
Was  seen  by  the  watchers  far  away, 
And  weeping  and  wailing  those  watchers  say, 
"  The  city  is  lost !  O  men  at  the  front, 
Braving  the  fortunes  of  war,  and  the  brunt 
Of  battle  bearing  with  fearful  cost. 
The  city  you  loved  and  left  is  lost!" 

Ah,  memories  crowding  so  thick  and  fast, 
Ye  were  the  first ;  is  this  the  last  ? 
We  gave  with  clamor  our  first  great  gift, 
With  shouts  which  up  to  the  heavens  lift; 
We  gave  with  silence  our  last  best  yield, 
Our  last,  best  gleaning  for  Shiloh's  field. 
With  mute  devotion  we  saw  them  go; 
But  when  the  banners  were  furled  and  low, 
And  the  solid  columns  were  thinned  by  war, 
We  wondered  what  we  had  given  for. 

And  oh,  the  day  when  with  muffled  drum 
We  saw  our  dear,  dead  Johnston  come! 
The  blood  of  our  slain  ones  seemed  to  pour 
From  the  eyes  that  should  see  them  come  no 

more. 

We  measured  our  grief  by  each  gallant  deed; 
We  measured  our  loss  by  our  direful  need ; 
Our  dead  dreams  rose  from  the  vanquished 

past, 

And  across  the  future  their  shadows  cast. 
Our  brave  young  hope,  like  a  fallen  tear, 
We  laid  on  the  grave  of  our  Chevalier. 

And  that  last  wild  night!  the  east  was  red 
So  long  'fore  the  day  had  left  its  bed. 
With  white,  set  faces,  and  smileless  lips, 
We  fired  our  vessels,  we  fired  our  ships. 
We  saw  the  sails  of  the  red  flame  lift 
O'er  each  fire-cargo  we  set  adrift ; 
To  Farragut's  fleet  we  sent  them  down, 
A  warm,  warm  welcome  from  the  town. 

But,  alas,  how  quickly  came  the  end ! 
For  down  the  river,  below  the  bend, 
Like  a  threatening  finger  shook  each  mast 
Of  the  Yankee  ships  as  they  steamed  up 

fast. 

Grim  and  terrible,  black  with  men, 
Oh,  for  the  Mississippi  then! 
And  —  God  be  merciful !  —  there  she  came, 
A  drifting  wreck,  a  ship  of  flame. 


476 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


What  a  torch  to  light  the  stripes  and  stars 
That  had  braved  our  forts  and  harbor  bars! 
What  a  light,  by  which  we  saw  vainly  slip 
Our  hopes  to  their  death  in  that  sinking  ship! 

We  shrieked  with  rage,  and  defeat,  and  dread, 
As  down  the  river  that  phantom  sped; 
But  on  the  deck  of  a  Yankee  ship, 
One  grim  old  tar,  with  a  smiling  lip, 
Tatted  the  big  black  breech  of  his  gun, 
As  one  who  silently  says,  "Well  done! " 

To-day  the  graves  that  were  new  are  old, 
And  a  story  done  is  a  story  told; 
But  we  of  the  city,  the  women  and  men, 
And  boys  unfitted  for  fighting  then, 
Remember  the  day  when  our  flag  went  down, 
And  the  stars  and  stripes  waved  over  the 

town. 

Ah  me !  the  bitter  goes  with  the  sweet, 
And  a  victory  means  another  defeat; 
For,  bound  in  Nature's  inflexible  laws, 
A  glory  for  one  is  another's  Lost  Cause. 

MARION  MANVILLE. 

The  national  flag  was  hoisted  over  the  mint, 
but  was  torn  down  and  dragged  through  the 
streets  in  derision  by  a  gang  of  men  led  by  William 
B.  Mumford.  Mumford  was  captured  and  hanged 
for  treason. 

MUMFORD 

THE  MARTYR  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 
[May,  1862] 

WHERE  murdered  Mumford  lies 

Bewailed  in  bitter  sighs, 

Low  bowed  beneath  the  flag  he  loved 

Martyrs  of  Liberty, 

Defenders  of  the  Free! 

Come,  humbly  nigh, 

And  learn  to  die! 

Ah,  Freedom  on  that  day 

Turned  fearfully  away. 

While  pitying  angels  lingered  near, 

To  gaze  upon  the  sod 

Red  with  a  martyr's  blood; 

And  woman's  tear 

Fell  on  his  bier! 

Oh,  God!  that  he  should  die 

Beneath  a  Southern  sky! 

Upon  a  felon's  gallows  swinging, 


Murdered  by  tyrant  hand,  — 
While  round  a  helpless  band, 
On  Butler's  name 
Poured  scorn  and  shame. 

But  hark !   loud  paeans  fly 

From  earth  to  vaulted  sky, 

He's  crowned  at  Freedom's  holy  throne! 

List!   sweet-voiced  Israfel 

Tolls  for  the  martyr's  knell! 

Shout  Southrons  high, 

Our  battle  cry! 

Come  all  of  Southern  blood, 
Come  kneel  to  Freedom's  God! 
Here  at  her  crimson  altar  swear! 
Accursed  forever  more 
The  flag  that  Mumford  tore, 
And  o'er  his  grave 
Our  colors  wave. 

INA  M.  PORTER. 


The  behavior  of  the  women  was  especially  in 
sulting  and  culminated  when  one  of  them  spat  in 
the  face  of  a  Union  officer.  General  Butler  there 
upon  issued  his  famous  Order  No.  28,  providing 
that  any  .woman  who  insulted  an  officer  or  soldier 
of  the  United  States  should  be  treated  as  a  woman 
of  the  town.  The  order  was  received  with  hysteria 
throughout  the  South,  but  it  brought  the  people  of 
New  Orleans  to  their  senses. 


BUTLER'S  PROCLAMATION 

[May  15,  1862] 

AY!   drop  the  treacherous  mask!    throw  by 
The  cloak  that  veiled  thine  instincts  fell, 

Stand  forth,  thou  base,  incarnate  Lie, 
Stamped  with  the  signet  brand  of  hell! 

At  last  we  view  thee  as  thou  art, 

A  trickster  with  a  demon's  heart. 

Off  with  disguise!   no  quarter  now 
To  rebel  honor!   thou  wouldst  strike 

Hot  blushes  up  the  anguished  brow, 
And  murder  Fame  and  Strength  alike. 

Beware!   ten  million  hearts  aflame 

Will  burn  with  hate  thou  canst  not  tame! 

We  know  thee  now !  we  know  thy  race ! 

Thy  dreadful  purpose  stands  revealed 
Naked,  before  the  nation's  face! 

Comrades!  let  Mercy's  font  be  sealed, 
While  the  black  banner  courts  the  wind, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  lags  behind! 


TO   JOHN   C.  FREMONT 


477 


O  soldiers,  husbands,  brothers,  sires! 

Think  that  each  stalwart  blow  ye  give 
Shall  quench  the  rage  of  lustful  fires, 

And  bid  your  glorious  women  live 
Pure  from  a  wrong  whose  tainted  breath 
Were  fouler  than  the  foulest  death. 

O  soldiers,  lovers,  Christians,  men! 

Think  that  each   breeze  that  floats  and 

dies 
O'er  the  red  field,  from  mount  or  glen, 

Is  burdened  with  a  maiden's  sighs  — 
And  each  false  soul  that  turns  to  flee, 
Consigns  his  love  to  infamy! 

Think!  and  strike  home!  the  fabled  might 
Of  Titans  were  a  feeble  power 

To  that  with  which  your  arms  should  smite 
In  the  next  awful  battle-hour! 

And  deadlier  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 

Sliould  flash  your  fury's  fatal  leven! 


No  pity!   let  your  thirsty  bands 

Drink  their  warm  fill  at  caitiff  veins; 

Dip  deep  in  blood  your  wrathful  hands, 
Nor  pause  to  wipe  those  crimson  stains. 

Slay!   slay!   with  ruthless  sword  and  will  — 

The  God  of  vengeance  bids  you  "kill.1" 

Yes!  but  there's  one  who  shall  not  die 
In  battle  harness !  One  for  whom 

Lurks  in  the  darkness  silently 
Another  and  a  sterner  doom ! 

A  warrior's  end  should  crown  the  brave  — 

For  him,  swift  cord !  and  felon  grave ! 

As  loathsome,  charnel  vapors  melt, 
Swept  by  invisible  winds  to  naught, 

So,  may  this  fiend  of  lust  and  guilt 
Die  like  nightmare's  hideous  thought! 

Naught  left  to  mark  the  mother's  name, 

Save  —  immortality  of  shame ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


CHAPTER   VII 


EMANCIPATION 


Slavery  had  caused  the  war,  and  as  the  months 
passed,  the  President  and  his  advisers  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  the  emancipation 
of  the  negroes  would  go  far  to  end  it.  On  August  31 , 
1861,  John  C.  Fre'mont,  in  command  of  the  West 
ern  Department,  issued  a  proclamation  freeing 
the  slaves  of  secessionists  in  Missouri,  but  the 
President  promptly  countermanded  it. 

TO  JOHN  C.  FREMONT 

[August  31,  1861] 

THY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 

A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  statesman's 

tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 
To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 
Oh,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 
At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 
Far-heard,   wide-echoed,   startling  as   thine 

own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  for 
lorn! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 
To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 
To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying  crime 
Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 
But  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 


The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun  their 

years 
Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts 

make 

A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 
Still  take  thou  courage!    God  has  spoken 

through  thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's 

dull  ear 
Turns    from   the    rice-swamp    stealthily  to 

hear. 
Who  would    recall   them    now  must    first 

arrest 
The  winds  that    blow  down  from  the  free 

Northwest, 

Ruffling  the  Gulf;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


The  slaves  were,  however,  from  the  outbreak 
of  hostilities,  declared  to  be  "contraband  of  war," 
and  not  returnable  to  their  masters.  On  April  1 6, 
1862,  the  President  approved  a  bill  freeing  the 
slaves  in  the  District  of  Columbia  and  compen 
sating  their  owners. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


ASTILEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL 

ABOLITION     OF     SLAVERY     IN     THE     DISTRICT 
OF   COLUMBIA,    1862 

[April  16,  1862) 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold. 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 
And,    smothering   down    the    wrath    and 

shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame. 

Stood  silent,  —  where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue:  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  sometime,  the  end  would  be; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it!  In  the  sun 
A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 


Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air! 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 
The    song    that    Bethlehem's    shepherds 

knew! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul! 

Not  as  we  hoped ;  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him:  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing !  yea,  I  will  rejoice ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun; 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, 

Rejoice  with  me!  The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice!   Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope!  The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 
JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER. 

At  last  the  President  resolved  to  throw  down 
the  gauntlet,  and  on  September  22,  1862,  pro 
claimed  that  all  slaves  should  be  freed  in  such 
states  as  were  in  rebellion  against  the  United 
States  on  January  1,  1863.  The  South  continued 
in  rebellion,  and  the  proclamation  went  into  effect 
on  the  first  day  of  the  new  year. 

BOSTON  HYMN 

[January  1,  1863] 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 


BOSTON  HYMN 


479 


As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  Same. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 

I  suffer  them  no  more; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 

The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 
Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel  —  his  name  is  Freedom  — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 

He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo!  I  uncover  the  land. 

Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 

When  he  has  wrought  his  best; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 

And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods; 

Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave; 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 

And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble. 

No  lineage  counted  great; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs; 

Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together. 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 

The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 

In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 


And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again: 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 

And  I  unchain  the  slave : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 

As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  proper  good  to  flow; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  hands  on  another, 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 

He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 

So  only  are  ye  unbound; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner 
And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

Who  is  the  owner  ?  The  slave  is  ownei 
And  ever  was.   Pay  him. 

O  North !  give  him  beauty  for  rags. 
And  honor,  O  South!  for  his  shame 

Nevada !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up!  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 

Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 

By  races,  as  snowflakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 

Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be. 

For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 

His  way  home  to  the  mark. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


THE  PROCLAMATION 

[January  1,  1863] 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words: 

"Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free!" 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 
Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  pardon 
him!" 

So  went  he  forth ;  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

O  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 

Breaks  the   long  silence  of  your  night  of 
wrong ! 

Arise  and  flee !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him!  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery 
cursed. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


The  Emancipation  Proclamation  was  received 
with  little  enthusiasm  except  in  New  England, 
and  early  in  1863  certain  politicians  proposed  to 
form  a  new  Union,  excluding  the  New  England 
states  because  of  their  hostility  to  slavery  and 
consequent  obnoxiousness  to  the  South. 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE 

[January  19,  1863] 

"  Who  deserves  greatness 
Deserves  your  hate.  .  .  . 

Yon  common  cry  of  curs,  whose  breath  I  loathe 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens."        COHIOLANUS. 

"Hark!  hark!  the  dogs  do  bark." 

NURSERY  RHYME. 

SONS  of  New  England,  in  the  fray, 

Do  you  hear  the  clamor  behind  your  back  ? 
Do  you  hear  the  yelping  of   Blanche  and 
Tray? 

Sweetheart,  and  all  the  mongrel  pack? 
Girded  well  with  her  ocean  crags, 

Little  our  mother  heeds  their  noise; 
Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  crimsoned  flags: 

But  you  *—  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 

Do  you  hear  them  say  that  the  patriot  fire 

Burns  on  her  altars  too  pure  and  bright, 
To  the  darkened  heavens  leaping  higher, 

Though  drenched  with  the  blood  of  every 

fight? 
That  in  the  light  of  its  searching  flame 

Treason  and  tyrants  stand  revealed, 
And  the  yielding  craven  is  put  to  shame 

On  Capitol  floor  or  foughten  field  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  hissing  voice,  which  saith 

That  she  —  who  bore  through  all  the  land 
The  lyre  of  Freedom,  the  torch  of  Faith, 

And  young  Invention's  mystic  wand  — 
Should  gather  her  skirts  and  dwell  apart, 

With  not  one  of  her  sisters  to  share  her 

fate, — 
A  Hagar,  wandering  sick  at  heart? 

A  pariah,  bearing  the  Nation's  hate? 

Sons,  who  have  peopled  the  distant  West, 

And  planted  the  Pilgrim  vine  anew, 
Where,  by  a  richer  soil  carest. 

It  grows  as  ever  its  parent  grew,  — 
Say,  do  you  hear,  —  while  the  very  bells 

Of  your  churches  ring  with  her  ancient 

voice, 
And  the  song  of  your  children  sweetly  tells 

How  true  was  the  land  of  your  fathers' 
choice,  — 

Do  you  hear  the  traitors  who  bid  you  spe? 
The  word  that  shall  sever  the  sacred  tie . 


LAUS   DEO 


481 


And  ye,  who  dwell  by  the  golden  Peak, 
Has  the  subtle  whisper  glided  by  ? 

Has  it  crost  the  immemorial  plains 

To  coasts  where  the  gray  Pacific  roars, 

And  the  Pilgrim  blood  in  the  people's  veins 
Is  pure  as  the  wealth  of  their  mountain  ores  ? 

Spirits  of  sons  who,  side  by  side, 

In  a  hundred  battles  fought  and  fell, 
Whom  now  no  East  and  West  divide, 

In  the  isle*  where  the  shades  of  heroes 

dwell,  — 
Say,  has  it  reached  your  glorious  rest, 

And  ruffled  the  calm  which  crowns  you 

there,  — 
The  shame  that  recreants  have  confest 

The  plot  that  floats  in  the  troubled  air? 

Sons  of  New  England,  here  and  there, 

Wherever  men  are  still  holding  by 
The  honor  our  fathers  left  so  fair,  — 

Say,  do  you  hear  the  cowards'  cry  ? 
Crouching  among  her  grand  old  crags, 

Lightly  our  mother  heeds  their  noise, 
With  her  fond  eyes  fixed  on  distant  flags; 

But  you  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


On  January  31,  1865,  Congress  adopted  an 
amendment  to  the  constitution  forever  abolishing 
slavery  in  the  United  States.  On  December  18, 
1  865,  it  was  announced  that  the  amendment  had 
been  ratified  by  the  requisite  number  of  states. 


LAUS   DEO! 

On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  the 

constitutional  amendment  abolishing  slavery. 

^ 

IT  is  done! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town! 

Ring,  O  bells! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 
Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time! 

Let  us  kneel: 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 


And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 
Lord,  forgive  us!   What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound! 

For  the  Lord 
On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad; 

In  the  earthquake  He  has  spoken; 
He  has  smitten  with  His  thunder 
The  iron  walls  asunder, 

And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown; 
"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously!" 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done? 

When  was  ever  His  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  laT7 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise! 

Blotted  out  I 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin! 

It  is  done! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun       • .:  • 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice. 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth ! 

Ring  and  swing. 

Bells  of  joy !  On  morning's  wing 
Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 
Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


482 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  "  GRAND  ARMY'S  "   SECOND   CAMPAIGN 


After  its  defeat  at  Fredericksburg,  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Potomac  had  gone  into  winter  quar 
ters.  General  Joseph  Hooker  was  appointed  to 
command  it  and  found  it  weak  and  shaken.  Mean 
while,  the  Confederate  cavalry  was  busy,  especially 
the  guerrillas  under  John  S.  Mosby,  who,  in  March, 
1863,  made  a  daring  and  successful  raid  upon  the 
Union  lines. 

MOSBY  AT  HAMILTON 

[March  16,  1863] 

DOWN  Loudon  Lanes,  with  swinging  reins 

And  clash  of  spur  and  sabre, 
And  bugling  of  the  battle  horn, 
Six  score  and  eight  we  rode  at  morn, 
Six  score  and  eight  of  Southern  born, 

AH  tried  in  love  and  labor. 

Full  in  the  sun  at  Hamilton, 

We  met  the  South *s  invaders; 
Who,  over  fifteen  hundred  strong, 
'Mid  blazing  homes  had  marched  along 
All  night,  with  Northern  shout  and  song 

To  crush  the  rebel  raiders. 

Down  Loudon  Lanes,  with  streaming  manes, 

We  spurred  in  wild  March  weather; 
And  all  along  our  war-scarred  way 
The  graves  of  Southern  heroes  lay, 
Our  guide-posts  to  revenge  that  day, 
As  we  rode  grim  together. 

Old  tales  still  tell  some  miracle 

Of  saints  in  holy  writing  — 
But  who  shall  say  while  hundreds  fled 
Before  the  few  that  Mosby  led. 
Unless  the  noblest  of  our  dead 

Charged  with  us  then  when  fighting  ? 

While  Yankee  cheers  still  stunned  our  ears, 

Of  troops  at  Harper's  Ferry, 
While  Sheridan  led  on  his  Huns, 
And  Richmond  rocked  to  roaring  guns, 
We  felt  the  South  still  had  some  sons 

She  would  not  scorn  to  bury. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 

A  few  days  after  Mosby's  exploit,  a  desperately 
contested  battle  occurred  at  Kelly's  Ford,  Va.. 
when  the  National  troops  under  General  W.  W. 


Averill  attacked  and  were  defeated  by  a  Confed 
erate  force  under  General  Fitzhugh  Lee.  Among 
the  Confederate  dead  was  General  John  Pelham. 


JOHN  PELHAM 

[March  1 7,  1 863] 

JUST  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the 
strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life, 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath 

His  bleeding  country  weeps; 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle-brunt, 

The  champion  of  the  truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells,  — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  drops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless 
hand 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face ; 

While  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  their  marble  slumber,  flashed  the 
grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

O  mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed ; 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky. 

Among  the  Southern  dead ! 


STONEWALL   JACKSON'S   WAY 


483 


How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown,  — 
He,  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath 

Twining  the  victor's  crown ! 

JAMES  RTDEH  RAN  DAI  .L. 


By  the  middle  of  April,  1863,  Hooker  had  his 
army  in  shape  to  advance,  and  on  the  28th  began 
to  cross  the  Rappahannock  for  the  purpose  of 
attacking  Lee,  who  held  a  strong  position  in  the 
rear  of  Fredericksburg.  On  April  30  Hooker's 
army  was  all  across  and  bivouacked  that  night  at 
Chancellorsville. 


HOOKER  'S  ACROSS 

[May  1,  1863] 

HOOKER'S  across!  Hooker's  across! 
Standards  and  guidons  and  lance-pennons  toss 
Over  the  land  where  he  points  with  his  blade, 
Bristle  the  hill-top,  and  fill  up  the  glade. 
Who  would  not  follow  a  leader  whose  blood 
Has  swelled,  like  our  own,  the  battle's  red 

flood? 
Who  bore  what  we  suffered,  our  wound  and 

our  pain,  — 
Bore  them  with  patience,  and  dares  them 

again  ? 

Hooker's  across! 

Hooker's  across!  Hooker's  across! 
River  of  death,  you  shall  make  up  our  loss ! 
Out  of  your  channel  we  summon  each  soul, 
Over  whose  body  your  dark  billows  roll; 
Vp  from  your  borders  we  summon  the  dead, 
From  valleys  and  hills  where  they  struggled 

and  bled, 

To  joy  in  the  vengeance  the  traitors  shall  feel 
At  the  roar  of  our  guns  and  the  rush  of  our 

steel ! 

Hooker's  across! 

Hooker's  across!  Hooker's  across! 
Fears  to  the  wind,  with  our  standards,  we 

toss, 

Moving  together,  straight  on,  with  one  breath, 
Down  to  the  outburst  of  passion  and  death. 
Oh,  in  the  depths  of  our  spirits  we  know 
If  we  fail  now  in  the  face  of  the  foe, 
Flee  from  the  field  with  our  flag  soiled  and 

dim, 

We  may  return,  but 't  will  not  be  with  him ! 
Hooker's  across! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


Lee  at  once  prepared  to  fight,  and  a  little  paft 
midnight  on  May  1,  1863,  he  put  Stonewall  Jack 
son's  column  in  motion  toward  Chancellorsville. 
Jackson  had  long  since  proved  himself  one  of  the 
South's  most  able  generals,  and  his  command  bad 
been  increased  to  thirty-three  thousand  men. 
every  one  of  whom  fairly  idolized  him. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY 

COME,  stack  arms,  men !  Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright; 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

We  see  him  now  —  the  queer  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 
Says  he,  "That's  Banks  —  he's  fond  of  shell; 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we'll  give  him  — "  well ! 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence!  ground  arms!  kneel  all!  caps  off ! 

Old  Massa's  goin'  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention!   it's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God: 
"Lay  bare  Thine  arm;  stretch  forth    Thy 
rod! 

Amen!"  That's  "Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.  Fall  in! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
"Quick  step!  we're  with  him  before  morn!*' 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning,  and,  by  George! 

Here's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 
Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 

Pope  and  his  Dutchmen,  whipped  before; 

"Bay'nets  and  grape!"  hear  Stonewall  roar; 

"Charge,  Stuart!    Pay  off  Ashby's  score.'  " 
In  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


484 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ah !   Maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band ! 

Ah!   Widow,  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 
That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 

Ah !  Wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on ; 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn; 

The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 
That  gets  in  "Stonewall's  way." 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 


The  battle  began  early  in  the  morning  and  the 
Union  army  was  soon  forced  to  take  refuge  behind 
its  works  and  assume  the  defensive.  The  Con 
federates  also  paused,  waiting  for  reinforcements. 
The  men  slept  on  their  arms  that  night,  and  arose 
at  dawn,  ready  to  renew  the  conflict. 

But  the  Confederates  did  not  attack  until  late 
in  the  afternoon.  Jackson  had  made  a  long  flank 
ing  movement,  and  just  as  twilight  fell,  he  burst 
from  the  woods  in  overwhelming  force  and  routed 
the  Federal  right  wing.  For  an  instant  it  seemed 
that  all  was  lost,  but  at  this  critical  moment  the 
Eighth  Pennsylvania  cavalry  got  in  touch  with  the 
Confederate  flank  and  charged. 


KEENAN'S  CHARGE 

[May  2,  1863] 

THE  sun  had  set; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet  — 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where  "  Stonewall's "  corps,  like  a  beast  of 

prey, 
Tore  through  with  angry  tusk. 

"They've  trapped  us,  boys!" 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke; 

Broke  and  fled. 

Not  one  stayed,  —  but  the  dead ! 

With  curses,  shrieks,  and  cries, 

Horses  and  wagons  and  men 

Tumbled    back    through    the    shuddering 

glen, 
And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

There's  one  hope,  still,  — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill ! 
"  Battery,  wheel ! "  ('mid  the  roar), 
"Pass  pieces;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 


Retiring.   Trot!"    In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "Trot!"  —  and  no  more. 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rose  a  form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern  commanding  shout: 

"Align  those  guns!" 

(We  knew  it  was  Pleasanton's.) 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 

And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word, 

And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had 

heard. 
But,  ah,  the  dread  delay! 

"To  wait  is  crime; 
O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time!" 
The  general  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 
With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone, 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"Major,  your  men?" 

"Are  soldiers,  general."   "Then, 

Charge,  major !   Do  your  best ; 

Hold  the  enemy  back  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed ;  —  else  the  army  is 

lost. 
You  die  to  save  the  rest!" 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasanton's  eye? 
For  an  instant  —  clear,  and  cool,  and  still; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said:   "I  will." 

"Cavalry,   charge!"    Not  a  man  of  them 

shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 
Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath,  — 
Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred,  and 

clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed; 
Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 
In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 
And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 
Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

WTith  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 


THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW,  SIR 


485 


And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale, 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed  with 

flame ; 

Rode  in,  and  sabred,  and  shot,  — and  fell: 
Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 
And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 
In   the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting   his 

fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 
'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous 

hung. 

Line  after  line,  aye,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dra 
goons, 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And    into   the  vortex   flung,   trampled  and 

torn; 

As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 
So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there  shattered   and 

mute, 

What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  'T  is  a  death-salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place;   for,  heroes,  you 

braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain ;  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now,  —  year  following  year,  — 
Over  their  graves  the  pine-cones  fall, 
And  the  whippoorwill  chants  his  spectre-call; 
But    they    stir    not    again;    they   raise    no 

cheer: 
They  have  ceased.  But  their  glory  shall  never 

cease, 
Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of 

peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still, 
That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 
GEOHGE  PAESONS  LATHROP. 


The  regiment  was  greatly  outnumbered,  and 
was  hurled  back  terribly  shattered,  Major  Peter 
Keenan  being  among  the  killed.  But  the  Confed 
erate  advance  had  been  checked  long  enough  for 
Pleasanton  to  get  his  artillery  into  position,  and 
he  opened  with  deadly  effect. 

The  Confederates  paused  in  the  face  of  the  ter 
rible  fire,  and  Jackson  and  his  staff  pushed  for 
ward  on  a  personal  reconnoissance.  As  he  was 


returning  to  his  lines,  he  and  his  companions  were 
mistaken  for  Union  troops  by  his  own  men  and 
were  fired  upon.  Jackson  fell,  pierced  by  three 
bullets. 


"THE  BRIGADE  MUST  NOT  KNOW, 
SIR!" 

[May  2,  1863] 

"WHO'VE  ye  got  there?"  —  "Only  a  dying 

brother, 

Hurt  in  the  front  just  now." 
"Good   boy!   he'll  do.     Somebody  tell  his 

mother 
Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 

"Whom  have  you  there?"  —  "A  crippled 

courier,  Major, 
Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 
He    was   with    Stonewall."     "Cruel    work 

they've  made  here; 
Quick  with  him  to  the  rear!" 

"Well,  who  comes  next?"  — "Doctor,  speak 

low,  speak  low,  sir; 
Don't  let  the  men  find  out! 
It 's  Stonewall ! "  —  "  God ! "  —  "  The  brigade 

must  not  know,  sir, 
While  there's  a  foe  about!" 

Whom  have  we  here  —  shrouded  in  martial 
manner, 

Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm  ? 
A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner, 

Born  of  his  heart  and  arm : 

The  heart  whereon  his  cause  hung  —  see  how 

clingeth 

That  banner  to  his  bier! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck  —  hark ! 

how  ringeth 
His  trumpet  in  their  rear! 

What  have  we  left  ?  His  glorious  inspiration, 

His  prayers  in  council  met. 
Living,  he  laid  the  first  stones  of  a  nation ; 

And  dead,  he  builds  it  yet. 


Early  on  the  morning  of  Sunday,  May  3,  1863, 
the  Confederates  again  attacked,  and  after  two 
days'  heavy  fighting,  drove  the  Union  army  back 
across  the  river,  with  a  loss  of  seventeen  thousand 
men.  But  the  Confederate  victory  was  almost 
outweighed  by  the  loss  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  who 
died  May  10. 


486 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


STONEWALL  JACKSON 

[May  10,  1863] 

NOT  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town; 
When  all  the  storm  was  hushed,  the  trusty 

oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the 

ground, 

Recalling  all  his  grand,  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  in  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  nation's  Promised  Land 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 
But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his 

hand  — 
The  Moses  of  the  South! 

O  gracious  God !  not  gainless  is  the  loss : 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown; 
And  while  his  country  staggers  'neath  the 

Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown! 

HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH. 


THE  DYING  WORDS  OF  STONE 
WALL  JACKSON1 

"  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  battle." 

"  Tell  Major  Hawks  to  advance  the  commissary 

train." 
"  Let  ua  cross  the  river  and  rest  in  the  shade." 

THE  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering  Day 
And  rain  his  glory  down  with  sweeter  grace 
Upon  the  dark  World's  grand,  enchanted 

face  — 
All  loth  to  turn  away. 

And  so  the  Day,  about  to  yield  his  breath, 
Utters  the  stars  unto  the  listening  Night, 
To  stand  for  burning  fare-thee-wells  of  light 
Said  on  the  verge  of  death. 

i  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Larrier;  copyright, 
1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


O  hero-life  that  lit  us  like  the  sun! 
O  hero-words  that  glittered  like  the  stars 
And  stood  and  shone  above  the  gloomy  wars 
When  the  hero-life  was  done! 

The  phantoms  of  a  battle  came  to  dwell 
I'  the  fitful  vision  of  his  dying  eyes  — 
Yet  even  in  battle-dreams,  he  sends  supplies 
To  those  he  loved  so  well. 

His  army  stands  in  battle-line  arrayed : 
His  couriers  fly:  all's  done:  now  God  de 
cide! 

—  And  not  till  then  saw  he  the  Other  Side 
Or  would  accept  the  shade. 

Thou  Land  whose  sun  is  gone,  thy  stars  re 
main! 
Still    shine   the  words    that    miniature    his 

deeds. 
O  thrice-beloved,  where'er  thy  great  heart 

bleeds, 
Solace  hast  thou  for  pain! 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


UNDER  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES 

WHAT  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his 
breast? 

What  is  the  mystical  vision  he  sees  ? 
—  "  Let  us  pass  over  the  river,  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees." 

Has  he  grown  sick  of  his  toils  and  his  tasks  ? 

Sighs  the  worn  spirit  for  respite  or  ease  ? 
Is  it  a  moment's  cool  halt  that  he  asks 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Is  it  the  gurgle  of  waters  whose  flow 

Ofttime  has  come  to  him,  borne  on  the 
breeze, 

Memory  listens  to,  lapsing  so  low, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Nay  —  though  the  rasp  of  the  flesh  was  so 

sore. 
Faith,  that  had  yearnings  far  keener  than 

these, 

Saw  the  soft  sheen  of  the  Thitherward  Shore 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees ;  — 

Caught  the  high  psalms  of  ecstatic  delight  — 
Heard  the  harps  harping,  like  soundings  of 
seas  — 


THE   BALLAD   OF  ISHMAEL   DAY 


487 


Watched   earth's   assoiled   ones   walking  in 

white 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

Oh,  was  it  strange  he  should  pine  for  re 
lease, 
Touched  to  the  soul  with  such  transports  as 

these,  — 

lie  who  so  needed  the  balsam  of  peace, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 

Yea,  it  was  noblest  for  him  —  it  was  best 
(Questioning  naught  of  our  Father's  de 
crees), 

There  to  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees! 

MABGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


Lee  waited  only  to  rest  his  forces  and  then,  for 
the  second  time,  invaded  Maryland,  crossing  the 
Shenandoah  at  Front  Royal.  On  June  13,  1863, 
the  army  appeared  before  Winchester,  scattered 
the  Union  force  stationed  there,  and  swept  resist- 
lessly  down  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  raiding  into 
Pennsylvania  as  far  as  Chambersburg. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ISHMAEL  DAY 

[June,  1863] 

ONE  summer  morning  a  daring  band 

Of  Rebels  rode  into  Maryland, 

Over  the  prosperous,  peaceful  farms, 
Sending  terror  and  strange  alarms. 
The   clatter   of   hoofs   and    the  clang  of 
arms. 

Fresh  from  the  South,  where  the  hungry  pine 
They  ate  like  Pharaoh's  starving  kine; 

They  swept  the  land  like  devouring  surge. 
And  left  their  path,  to  the  farthest  verge, 
Bare  as  the  track  of  the  locust  scourge. 

"The  Rebels  are  coming!"  far  and  near 
Rang  the  tidings  of  dread  and  fear; 

Some  paled  and  cowered  and  sought  to 
hide; 

Some  stood  erect  in  their  fearless  pride; 

And  women  shuddered  and  children  cried. 

But  others  —  vipers  in  human  form 
Stinging  the  bosom  that  kept  them  warm  — 
Welcomed  with  triumph  the  thievish  band, 
Hurried  to  offer  the  friendly  hand, 
As  the  Rebels  rode  into  Maryland. 


Made  them  merry  with  food  and  wine, 
Clad  them  in  garments,  rich  and  fine, 
For  rags  and  hunger  to  make  amends. 
Flattered  them,  praised  them  with  selfish 

ends; 
"Leave  us  scathless,  for  we  are  friends." 

Could  traitors  trust  a  traitor?   No! 

Little  they  favor  friend  or  foe. 

But  gathered  the  cattle  the  farms  across. 
Flinging  back,  with  a  scornful  toss, 
"If  ye  are  friends  ye  can  bear  the  loss!" 

Flushed  with  triumph,  and  wine,  and  prey. 
They  neared  the  dwelling  of  Ishmael  Day, 
A  sturdy  veteran,  gray  and  old, 
With  heart  of  a  patriot,  firm  and  bold. 
Strong  and  steadfast  —  unbribed,  unsold. 

And  Ishmael  Day,  his  brave  head  bare, 
His  white  locks  tossed  by  the  morning  air, 
Fearless  of  danger,  or  death,  or  scars, 
Went  out  to  raise  by  the  farm-yard  bars 
The  dear  old  flag  of  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Proudly,  steadily,  up  it  flew. 

Gorgeous  with  crimson,  white  and  blue. 
His  withered  hand  as  he  shook  it  freer, 
May  have  trembled,  but  not  with  fear. 
While  shouting  the  rebels  drew  more  near. 

"Halt!"  They  had  seen  the  hated  sign 
Floating  free  from  old  Ishmael's  line  — 
"Lower  that  rag!"  was  their  wrathful  cry; 
"Never!"  rung  Ishmael  Day's  reply, 
"Fire  if  it  please  you  —  I  can  but  die." 

One,  with  a  loud,  defiant  laugh. 
Left  his  comrades  and  neared  the  staff. 
"Down!"  came  the  fearless  patriot's  cry, 
"Dare  to  lower  that  flag  and  die! 
One  must  bleed  for  it  —  you  or  I." 

But  caring  not  for  the  stern  command, 
He  drew  the  halliards  with  daring  hand ; 
Ping!  went  the  rifle  ball  —  down  he  came, 
Under  the  flag  he  had  tried  to  shame  — 
Old  Ishmael  Day  took  careful  aim ! 

Seventy  winters  and  three  had  shed 
Their  snowy  glories  on  Ishmael's  head. 

Though  cheeks  may  wither  and  locks  grow 
gray, 

His  fame  shall  be  fresh  and  young  alway  — 

Honor  be  to  old  Ishmael  Day! 


488 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Hooker,  meanwhile,  was  almost  wholly  in  the 
dark  concerning  the  position  of  Lee's  army,  until 
it  was  partially  revealed  to  him  on  June  17,  1863, 
when  Kilpatrick's  cavalry  charged  and  drove 
back  the  Confederate  cavalry  as  it  emerged  from 
Ashby's  Gap.  Still  he  hesitated,  and  the  whole 
of  western  Pennsylvania  appeared  to  be  at  the 
mercy  of  the  invaders. 


RIDING  WITH  KILPATRICK 

[June  17,  1863] 

DAWN  peered  through  the  pines  as  we  dashed 

at  the  ford ; 

Afar  the  grim  guns  of  the  infantry  roared ; 
There  were  miles  yet  of  dangerous  pathway 

to  pass, 
And  Mosby  might  menace,  and  Stuart  might 

mass; 
But  we  mocked  every  doubt,  laughing  danger 

to  scorn, 
As  we  quaffed  with  a  shout  from  the  wine  of 

the  morn. 
Those  who  rode  with  Kilpatrick  to  valor  were 

born! 

How  we  chafed  at  delay !  How  we  itched  to  be 

on! 

How  we  yearned  for  the  fray  where  the  battle- 
reek  shone! 
It  was  forward,  not  halt,  stirred  the  fire  in  our 

veins. 
When  our  horses'  feet  beat  to  the  click  of  the 

reins; 
It  was  charge,  not  retreat,  we  were  wonted  to 

hear; 
It  was  charge,  not  retreat,  that  was  sweet  to 

the  ear; 
Those  who  rode  with  Kilpatrick  had  never  felt 

fear! 

At  last  the  word  came,  and  troop  tossed  it  to 

troop; 
Two  squadrons  deployed  with  a  falcon-like 

swoop; 

While  swiftly  the  others  in  echelons  formed, 
For  there,  just  ahead,  was  the   line  to  be 

stormed. 
The  trumpets  rang  out;  there  were  guidons 

a-blow; 
The    white    summer    sun    set    our    sabres 

a-glow; 
Those  who  rode    with    Kilpatrick  charged 

straight  at  the  foe! 


We  swept  like  a  whirlwind ;  we  closed ;  at  the 

shock 
The  sky  seemed  to  reel  and  the  earth  seemed 

to  rock; 
Steel  clashed  upon  steel  with  a  deafening 

sound, 
While  a  redder  than  rose-stain  encrimsoned 

the  ground; 
If  we  gave  back  a  space  from  the  fierce  pit  of 

hell, 

We  were  rallied  again  by  a  voice  like  a  bell. 
Those  who  rode  with  Kilpatrick  rode  valiantly 

well! 

Rang  sternly  his  orders  from  out  of  the  wrack : 
Re-form  there,  New  Yorkers  I   You,  "  Harris 

Light,"  back! 
Come  on,  men  of  Maine  I  We  will  conquer  or 

fall! 
Now,  forward,  boys,  forward !  and  follow  me 

all! 

A  Bayard  in  boldness,  a  Sidney  in  grace, 
A  lion  to  lead  and  a  stag-hound  to  chase  — 
Those    who    rode    with    Kilpatrick    looked 

Death  in  the  face! 

Though  brave  were  our  foemen,  they  faltered 

and  fled; 
Yet  that  was  no  marvel  when  such  as  he 

led! 

Long  ago,  long  ago,  was  that  desperate  day ! 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  strove  the  Blue  and  the 

Gray! 

Praise  God  that  the  red  sun  of  battle  is  set ! 
That  our  hand-clasp  is  loyal  and  loving  — 

and  yet, 
Those  who  rode  with  Kilpatrick  can  never 

forget ! 

CLINTON  SCOIXARD. 


This  sudden  and  seemingly  irresistible  invasion 
created  panic  throughout  the  North.  Troops  were 
hurried  forward,  and  Hooker  at  last  started  in 
pursuit  with  a  hundred  thousand  men,  but  was  re 
lieved  of  command  on  June  27,  1863,  and  General 
George  G.  Meade  appointed  in  his  place.  Lee  was 
concentrating  his  army  at  Gettysburg,  and  his 
advance  guard  got  into  touch  with  the  Union  forces 
on  the  morning  of  July  1.  The  first  day's  fighting 
ended  in  the  Federals  being  swept  backward  to 
their  position  on  Cemetery  Hill.  The  battle  con 
tinued  with  undiminished  fury  throughout  the 
second  day;  and  on  the  third.  Lee  determined  to 
renew  the  assault  and  Meade  decided  to  stay  and 
receive  it.  The  entire  morning  was  consumed  in 
preparation.  Then  the  Confederates  charged  in  a 
line  three  miles  long,  with  General  George  Pickett 


GETTYSBURG 


489 


and  his  Virginians  in  the  van.  A  terrific  struggle 
followed,  ending  in  the  repulse  of  the  Confederates, 
who  withdrew  in  good  order  from  the  field. 


GETTYSBURG 

[July  3,  1863) 

WAVE,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave 

soldiers  of  the  North, 
And  from  the  field  your  arms  have  won  to-day 

go  proudly  forth! 
For  none,  O  comrades  dear  and  leal,  —  from 

whom  no  ills  could  part, 
Through  the  long  years  of  hopes  and  fears, 

the  nation's  constant  heart,  — 
Men  who  have  driven  so  oft  the  foe,  so  oft 

have  striven  in  vain, 
Yet  ever  in  the  perilous  hour  have  crossed  his 

path  again,  — 
At  last  we  have  our  hearts'  desire,  from  them 

we  met  have  wrung 
A  victory  that  round  the  world  shall  long  be 

told  and  sung! 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  past  that  bore  us 

through  the  fray, 
That  gave  the  grand  old  Army  strength  to 

conquer  on  this  day! 

O  now  forget  how  dark  and  red  Virginia's 

rivers  flow, 
The  Rappahan  nock's  tangled  wilds,  the  glory 

and  the  woe; 
The    fever-hung    encampments,    where   our 

dying  knew  full  sore 
How  sweet  the  north-wind  to  the  cheek  it  soon 

shall  cool  no  more; 
The  fields  we  fought,  and  gained,  and  lost; 

the  lowland  sun  and  rain 
That  wasted  us,  that  bleached  the  bones  of 

our  unburied  slain! 
There  was  no  lack  of  foes  to  meet,  of  deaths 

to  die  no  lack, 
And  all  the  hawks  of  heaven  learned  to  follow 

on  our  track; 
But  henceforth,    hovering    southward,  their 

flight  shall  mark  afar 
The  paths  of  yon  retreating  hosts  that  shun 

the  northern  star. 


At  night,  before  the  closing  fray,  when  all  the 

front  was  still, 
We  lay  in  bivouac  along  the  cannon-crested 

hill. 


Ours  was  the  dauntless  Second  Corps;  and 

many  a  soldier  knew 
How  sped  the  fight,  and  sternly  thought  of 

what  was  yet  to  do. 
Guarding  the  centre  there,  we  lay,  and  talked 

with  bated  breath 
Of  Buford's  stand  beyond  the  town,  of  gallant 

Reynold's  death, 
Of  cruel  retreats  through  pent-up  streets  by 

murderous  volleys  swept,  — 
How  well  the  Stone,  the  Iron,  Brigades  their 

bloody  outposts  kept: 
'T  was  for  the   Union,  for  the  Flag,  they 

perished,  heroes  all, 
And  we  swore  to  conquer  in  the  end,  or  even 

like  them  to  fall.. 

And  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of 

that  grim  day  just  done, 
The  fight  by  Round  Top's  craggy  spur,  —  of 

all  the  deadliest  one; 
It  saved  the  left :  but  on  the  right  they  pressed 

us  back  too  well. 
And  like  a  field  in  Spring  the  ground  was 

ploughed  with  shot  and  shell. 
There  was  the  ancient  graveyard,  its  hum 
mocks  crushed  and  red, 
And  there,  between  them,  side  by  side,  the 

wounded  and  the  dead : 
The   mangled    corpses    fallen   above,  —  the 

peaceful  dead  below, 
Laid  in  their  graves,  to  slumber  here,  a  score 

of  years  ago ; 
It  seemed  their  waking,  wandering  shades 

were  asking  of  our  slain, 
What    brought    such    hideous    tumult    now 

where  they  so  still  had  lain! 

Bright    rose    the    sun    of    Gettysburg    that 

morrow  morning-tide. 
And  call  of  trump  and  roll  of  drum  from 

height  to  height  replied. 
Hark!   from  the  east  already  goes  up  the 

rattling  din; 
The  Twelfth     Corps,   winning   back    their 

ground,  right  well  the  day  begin ! 
They  whirl  fierce  Ewell  from  their  front! 

Now  we  of  the  Second  pray, 
As  right  and  left  the  brunt  have  borne,  the 

centre  might  to-day. 
But  all  was  still  from  hill  to  hill  for  many  a 

breathless  hour. 
While    for    the    coming    battle-shock    Lee 

gathered  in  his  power; 


490 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  back  and  forth  our  leaders  rode,  who 

knew  not  rest  or  fear, 
And  along  the  lines,   where'er  they  came, 

went  up  the  ringing  cheer. 

'T  was  past  the  hour  of  nooning;  the  Summer 

skies  were  blue; 
Behind  the  covering  timber  the  foe  was  hid 

from  view; 
So  fair  and  sweet  with  waving  wheat   the 

pleasant  valley  lay, 
It  brought  to  mind  our  Northern  homes  and 

meadows  far  away; 
When  the  whole  western  ridge  at  once  was 

fringed  with  fire  and  smoke; 
Against  our  lines  from  sevenscore  guns  the 

dreadful  tempest  broke! 
Then  loud  our  batteries  answer,  and  far  along 

the  crest. 
And  to  and  fro  the  roaring  bolts  are  driven 

east  and  west; 
Heavy  and  dark  around  us  glooms  the  stifling 

sulphur-cloud, 
And  the  cries  of  mangled  men  and  horse  go 

up  beneath  its  shroud. 

The  guns  are  still:  the  end  is  nigh:  we  grasp 

our  arms  anew ; 
O  now  let  every  heart  be  stanch  and  every 

aim  be  true! 
For  look!  from  yonder  wood  that  skirts  the 

valley's  further  marge. 
The  flower  of  all  the  Southern  host  move  to 

the  final  charge. 
By  Heaven!  it  is  a  fearful  sight  to  see  their 

double  rank 
Come  with  a  hundred  battle-flags,  —  a  mile 

from  flank  to  flank! 
Tramping  the  grain  to  earth,  they  come,  ten 

thousand  men  abreast; 
Their    standards   wave,  —  their   hearts    are 

brave,  —  they  hasten  not,  nor  rest, 
But  close  the  gaps  our  cannon  make,  and 

onward  press,  and  nigher. 
And,  yelling  at  our  very  front,  again  pour  in 

their  fire ! 

Now  burst  our  sheeted  lightnings  forth,  now 

all  our  wrath  has  vent! 
They  die,  they  wither;  through  and  through 

their  wavering  lines  are  rent. 
But  these  are  gallant,  desperate  men,  of  our 

own  race  and  land. 
Who  charge  anew,  and  welcome  death,  and 

fight  us  hand  to  hand: 


Vain,  vain !  give  way,  as  well  ye  may  —  the 

crimson  die  is  cast! 
Their   bravest   leaders   bite   the  dust,   their 

strength  is  failing  fast; 
They  yield,  they  turn,  they  fly  the  field:  we 

smite  them  as  they  run; 
Their  arms,  their  colors  are  our  spoil;  the 

furious  fight  is  done! 
Across  the  plain  we  follow  far  and  backward 

push  the  fray; 
Cheer !  cheer !  the  grand  old  Army  at  last  has 

won  the  day ! 

Hurrah !  the  day  has  won  the  cause!  No  gray- 
clad  host  henceforth 
Shall  come  with  fire  and  sword  to  tread  the 

highways  of  the  North ! 
'T  was  such  a  flood  as  when  ye  see  along  the 

Atlantic  shore, 
The  great  Spring-tide  roll  grandly  in  with 

swelling  surge  and  roar: 
It  seems  no  wall  can  stay  its  leap  or  balk  its 

wild  desire 
Beyond  the  bound  that  Heaven  hath  fixed  to 

higher  mount,  and  higher; 
But  now,  when  whitest  lifts  its  crest,  most 

loud  its  billows  call, 
Touched  by  the  Power  that  led  them  on,  they 

fall,  and  fall,  and  fall. 
Even   thus,   unstayed    upon   his   course,    to 

Gettysburg  the  foe 
His  legions  led,  and  fought,  and  fled,  and 

might  no  further  go. 

Full  many  a  dark-eyed  Southern  girl  shall 

weep  her  lover  dead ; 
But  with  a  price  the  fight  was  ours,  —  we  too 

have  tears  to  shed ! 
The  bells  that  peal  our  triumph  forth  anon 

shall  toll  the  brave, 
Above  whose  heads  the  cross  must  stand,  the 

hillside  grasses  wave! 
Alas!  alas!  the  trampled  grass  shall  thrive 

another  year, 
The  blossoms  on  the  apple-boughs  with  each 

new  Spring  appear, 
But  when  our  patriot-soldiers  fall,  Earth  gives 

them  up  to  God; 
Though  their  souls  rise  in  clearer  skies,  their 

forms  are  as  the  sod ; 
Only  their  names  and  deeds  are  ours,  —  but, 

for  a  century  yet, 
The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land 

shall  not  forget. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 


49 i 


God  send  us  peace!  and  where  for  aye  the 

loved  and  lost  recline 
Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm,  —  O 

North,  your  sprigs  of  pine! 
But  when,  with  every  ripened  year,  we  keep 

the  harvest-home, 
And  to  the  dear  Thanksgiving-feast  our  sons 

and  daughters  come,  — 
When  children's  children  throng  the  board  in 

the  old  homestead  spread. 
And  the  bent  soldier  of  these  wars  is  seated  at 

the  head, 
Long,  long  the  lads  shall  listen  to  hear  the 

gray-beard  tell 
Of  those  who  fought  at  Gettysburg  and  stood 

their  ground  so  well : 
"  'T  was  for  the  Union  and  the  Flag,"  the 

veteran  shall  say, 
"  Our  grand  old  Army  held  the  ridge,  and 

won  that  glorious  day ! " 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

[JulyS,  1863J 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield : 

Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen 

dashed. 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then,  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee, 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns, 
A  cry  of  tumult  runs: 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's 
woods, 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes: 
The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew! 

A   Khamsin   wind    that   scorched   and 
singed, 

Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo ! 


A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 

A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke. 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke, 

And  crossed  the  works  with  Arm  is  lead. 

"Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me!" 

Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee: 

"We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  those  works  to-day  1" 

The  reddest  day  in  history. 

Brave  Tennessee!   In  reckless  way 

Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say: 
"Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle  flag 

Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 

Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Wrere  shrivelled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 

His  breast  against  the  bayonet; 

In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 

Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 

Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud. 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 

The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down!    Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace; 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand; 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland. 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium ; 

They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hop? 

Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope. 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom ! 


492 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


God  lives!  He  forged  the  iron  will, 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill! 
God  lives  and  reigns !   He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement, 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still! 

Fold  up  the  banners !  Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love  rules.  Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 

A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears, 

The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons! 

WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON. 


GETTYSBURG 

[July  1,2,3,1863] 

THERE  was  no  union  in  the  land, 
Though  wise  men  labored  long 

With  links  of  clay  and  ropes  of  sand 
To  bind  the  right  and  wrong. 

There  was  no  temper  in  the  blade 
That  once  could  cleave  a  chain ; 

Its  edge  was  dull  with  touch  of  trade 
And  clogged  with  rust  of  gain. 

The  sand  and  clay  must  shrink  away 

Before  the  lava  tide: 
By  blows  and  blood  and  fire  assay 

The  metal  must  be  tried. 

Here  sledge  and  anvil  met,  and  when 
The  furnace  fiercest  roared, 

God's  undiscerning  workingmen 
Reforged  His  people's  sword. 

Enough  for  them  to  ask  and  know 
The  moment's  duty  clear  — 

The  bayonets  flashed  it  there  below, 
The  guns  proclaimed  it  here: 

To  do  and  dare,  and  die  at  need, 
But  while  life  lasts,  to  fight  — 

For  right  or  wrong  a  simple  creed, 
But  simplest  for  the  right. 

They  faltered  not  who  stood  that  day 
And  held  this  post  of  dread ; 

Nor  cowards  they  who  wore  the  gray 
Until  the  gray  was  red. 

For  every  wreath  the  victor  wears 
The  vanquished  half  may  claim; 


And  every  monument  declares 
A  common  pride  and  fame. 

We  raise  no  altar  stones  to  Hate, 

Who  never  bowed  to  Fear: 
No  province  crouches  at  our  gate, 

To  shame  our  triumph  here. 

Here  standing  by  a  dead  wrong's  grave 

The  blindest  now  may  see, 
The  blow  that  liberates  the  slave 

But  sets  the  master  free! 

When  ills  beset  the  nation's  life 

Too  dangerous  to  bear, 
The  sword  must  be  the  surgeon's  knife, 

Too  merciful  to  spare. 

O  Soldier  of  our  common  land, 
'T  is  thine  to  bear  that  blade 

Loose  in  the  sheath,  or  firm  in  hand, 
But  ever  unafraid. 

When  foreign  foes  assail  our  right, 
One  nation  trusts  to  thee  — 

To  wield  it  well  in  worthy  fight  — 
The  sword  of  Meade  and  Lee! 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


Lee  commenced  his  retreat  next  morning,  and 
was  able  to  gain  the  Potomac,  with  his  whole 
train,  virtually  without  molestation.  But  the 
North  was  too  rejoiced  by  the  withdrawal  of  the 
invaders  to  mourn  at  their  escape. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD 

GETTYSBURG 

THOSE  were  the  conquered,  still  too  proud  to 

yield  — 
These  were   the  victors,    yet    too    poor  for 

shrouds ! 
Here   scarlet    Slaughter   slew  her   countless 

crowds 
Heaped  high  in  ranks  where'er  the  hot  guns 

pealed. 

The  brooks  that  wandered  through  the  battle 
field 

Flowed  slowly  on  in  ever-reddening  streams ; 
Here  where  the  rank  wheat  waves  and  golden 

gleams, 
The  dreadful  squadrons,  thundering,  charged 

and  reeled. 
Within  the  blossoming  clover  many  a  bone 


JOHN   BURNS   OF   GETTYSBURG 


493 


Lying  unsepulchred,  has  bleached  to  white; 
While   gentlest    hearts   that   only  love   had 

known, 

Have  ached  with  anguish  at  the  awful  sight; 
And  War's  gaunt  Vultures  that  were  lean, 

have  grown 

Gorged  in  the  darkness  in  a  single  night! 
LLOYD  MIFFLIN. 


Among  the  thousands  who  took  part  in  that  ter 
rific  three  days'  struggle  none  was  more  remark 
able  than  old  John  Burns,  a  veteran  of  the  War  of 
1812  and  of  the  Mexican  War,  who,  rejected  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War  on  account  of  his 
age,  nevertheless  shouldered  his  rifle  and  helped 
repef  the  invaders,  when  they  approached  his 
home  at  Gettysburg. 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 
Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg?   No?   Ah,  well: 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns : 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 
The  only  man  who  did  n't  back  down 
When  the    rebels    rode    through    his  native 

town; 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,  sixty-three,  — 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry,          • 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine. 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet; 
Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 
The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood! 
Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine, 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 


That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.  On  the  right 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face; 

While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — 

Round-shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  maii> 

The  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

Writh  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 
Erect  and  lonely,  stood  old  John  Burns. 
How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 
He  wore  an  ancient,  long  buff  vest, 
Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best; 
And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 
Was  a  bright  blue  coat  with  a  rolling  collar. 
And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 
With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "swal- 

ler." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 
White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 
Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 
For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 
Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 
And  went  to  the  "quiltings"  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home-Guard  mustered  in,  — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire: 

"How  are  you,    White   Hat?"     "Put  her 

through ! " 

"Your  head's  level!"  and  "Bully  for  you!" 
Called  him  "Daddy,"  —  begged  he'd  disclose 
The  name  of  his  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those; 


494 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  or  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crowned 

hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 
Which    clothes     all   courage    their    voices 

checked ; 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 
And    his    corded    throat,   and    the  lurking 

frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men 

saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments   and   long   white 

hair, 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.   You  know  the  rest: 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns: 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question 's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather. 
BRET  HARTE. 


Never  was  the  Union  nearer  dissolution  than 
it  was  on  the  eve  of  Gettysburg.  A  counter-revo 
lution  had  been  planned,  but  Lee  was  defeated 
and  the  plot  failed.  A  force  of  four  thousand  raid 
ers,  under  John  H.  Morgan,  had  dashed  across 
Kentucky,  into  Indiana  and  Ohio,  expecting  sup 
port  from  the  peace  faction;  but  the  result  of 
Gettysburg  spoiled  all  that,  and  Morgan  and  his 
men  were  surrounded  and  captured  while  trying 
to  get  back  across  the  Ohio  River. 


KENTUCKY  BELLE 

SUMMER  of  'sixty-three,  sir,  and  Conrad  was 

gone  away  — 
Gone  to  the  county-town,  sir,  to  sell  our  first 

load  of  hay  — 


We  lived  in  the  log  house  yonder,  poor  as 

you've  ever  seen; 
Rdschen  there  was  a  baby,  and  I  was  only 

nineteen. 

Conrad,  he  took  the  oxen,  but  he  left  Ken 
tucky  Belle. 

How  much  we  thought  of  Kentuck,  I  could  n't 
begin  to  tell  — 

Came  from  the  Blue-Grass  country;  my 
father  gave  her  to  me 

When  I  rode  North  with  Conrad,  away  from 
Tennessee. 

Conrad  lived  in  Ohio  —  a  German  he  is,  you 
know  — 

The  house  stood  in  broad  corn-fields,  stretch 
ing  on,  row  after  row. 

The  old  folks  made  me  welcome;  they  were 
kind  as  kind  could  be; 

But  I  kept  longing,  longing,  for  the  hills  of 
Tennessee. 

Oh !  for  a  sight  of  water,  the  shadowed  slope 

of  a  hill! 
Clouds  that  hang  on  the  summit,  a  wind  that 

never  is  still! 
But  the  level  land  went  stretching  away  to 

meet  the  sky  — 
Never  a  rise,  from  north  to  south,  to  rest  the 

weary  eye! 

From  east  to  west  no  river  to  shine  out  under 
the  moon, 

Nothing  to  make  a  shadow  in  the  yellow  after 
noon: 

Only  the  breathless  sunshine,  as  I  looked  out, 
all  forlorn; 

Only  the  "rustle,  rustle,"  as  I  walked  among 
the  corn. 

When  I  fell  sick  with  pining,  we  did  n't  wait 

any  more, 
But  moved  away  from  the  corn-lands,  out  to 

this  river  shore  — 
The  Tuscarawas  it's  called,  sir  —  off  there's 

a  hill,  you  see  — 
And  now  I  've  grown  to  like  it  next  best  to  the 

Tennessee. 

I  was  at  work  that  morning.  Some  one  came 

riding  like  mad 
Over  the  bridge  and  up  the  road  —  Farmer 

Rouf's  little  lad. 


KENTUCKY  BELLE 


495 


Bareback  he  rode;  he  had  no  hat;  he  hardly 

stopped  to  say, 
"Morgan's  men  are  coming,  Frau;   they're 

galloping  on  this  way. 

''•I'm  sent  to  warn  the  neighbors.  He  is  n't  a 

mile  behind; 
He  sweeps  up  all  the  horses  —  every  horse 

that  he  can  find. 
Morgan,  Morgan  the  raider,  and  Morgan's 

terrible  men, 
With  bowie-knives  and  pistols,  are  galloping 

up  the  glen ! " 

The  lad  rode  down  the  valley,  and  I  stood  still 

at  the  door; 
The  baby  laughed  and  prattled,  playing  with 

spools  on  the  floor; 
Kentuck  was  out  in  the  pasture;  Conrad,  my 

man,  was  gone. 
Near,  nearer,  Morgan's  men  were  galloping, 

galloping  on! 

Sudden  I  picked  up  baby,  and  ran  to  the 

pasture-bar. 
"Kentuck!"  I  called  —  "Kentucky!"    She 

knew  me  ever  so  far! 
I  led  her  down  the  gully  that  turns  off  there  to 

the  right. 
And  tied  her  to  the  bushes;  her  head  was  just 

out  of  sight. 

As  I  ran  back  to  the  log  house,  at  once  there 
came  a  sound  — 

The  ring  of  hoofs,  galloping  hoofs,  trembling 
over  the  ground  — 

Coming  into  the  turnpike,  out  from  the  White- 
Woman  Glen  — 

Morgan,  Morgan  the  raider,  and  Morgan's 
terrible  men. 

As  near  they  drew  and  nearer,  my  heart  beat 

fast  in  alarm ; 
But  still  I  stood  in  the  doorway  with  baby  on 

my  arm. 
They  came;  they  passed;  with  spur  and  whip 

in  haste  they  sped  along  — 
Morgan,  Morgan  the  raider,  and  his  band, 

six  hundred  strong. 

Weary  they  looked  and  jaded,  riding  through 

night  and  through  day; 
Pushing  on  East  to  the  river,  many  long  miles 

away. 


To  the  border-strip  where  Virginia  runs  up 

into  the  Wrest, 
And  fording  the  Upper  Ohio  before  they  could 

stop  to  rest. 

On  like  the  wind  they  hurried,  and  Morgan 

rode  in  advance; 
Bright  were  his  eyes  like  live  coals,  as  he  gave 

me  a  sideways  glance ; 
I  was  just  breathing  freely,  after  my  choking 

pain, 
When  the  last  one  of  the  troopers  suddenly 

drew  his  rein. 

Frightened  I  was  to  death,  sir;  I  scarce  dared 

look  in  his  face, 
As  he  asked  for  a  drink  of  water,  and  glanced 

around  the  place. 
I  gave  him  a  cup  and  he  smiled  —  't  was  only 

a  boy,  you  see; 
Faint  and  worn,  with  dim  blue  eyes;    and 

he'd  sailed  on  the  Tennessee. 

Only  sixteen  he  was,  sir  —  a  fond  mother's 

only  son  — 
Off  and  away  with  Morgan  before  his  life  has 

begun! 
The  damp  drops  stood  on  bis  temples  — 

drawn  was  the  boyish  mouth; 
And  I  thought  me  of  the  mother  waiting  down 

in  the  South. 

Oh !  pluck  was  he  to  the  backbone,  and  clear 

grit  through  and  through ; 
Boasted  and  bragged  like  a  trooper,  but  the 

big  words  would  n't  do;  — 
The  boy  was  dying,  sir,  dying,  as  plain  as 

plain  could  be, 
Worn  out  by  his  ride  with  Morgan  up  from 

the  Tennessee. 

But  when  I  told  the  laddie  that  I  too  was  from 

the  South, 
Water  came  in  his  dim  eyes,  and  quivers 

around  his  mouth. 
"Do  you  know  the  Blue-Grass  country?"  he 

wistful  began  to  say; 
Then  swayed  likea  willow-sapling,  and  fainted 

dead  away. 

I  had  him  into  the  log  house,  and  worked  and 

brought  him  to; 
I  fed  him  and  I  coaxed  him,  as  I  thought  his 

mother 'd  do; 


496 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  when  the  lad  grew  better,  and  the  noise 

in  his  head  was  gone, 
Morgan's  men  were  miles  away,  galloping, 

galloping  on. 

"Oh,  I  must  go,"  he  muttered;   "I  must  be 

up  and  away ! 
Morgan  —  Morgan  is  waiting  for  me !   Oh, 

what  will  Morgan  say  ? " 
But  I  heard  a  sound  of  tramping  and  kept 

him  back  from  the  door  — 
The  ringing  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  that  I  had 

heard  before. 

And  on,  on,  came  the  soldiers  —  the  Michi 
gan  cavalry  — 

And  fast  they  rode,  and  black  they  looked, 
galloping  rapidly,  — 

They  had  followed  hard  on  Morgan's  track; 
they  had  followed  day  and  night; 

But  of  Morgan  and  Morgan's  raiders  they  had 
never  caught  a  sight. 

And  rich  Ohio  sat  startled  through  all  those 

summer  days; 
For  strange,  wild  men  were  galloping  over  her 

broad  highways  — 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  seen,  now  gone. 

now  north,  now  east,  now  west, 
Through  river-valleys  and  corn-land  farms, 

sweeping  away  her  best. 

A  bold  ride  and  a  long  ride!  But  they  were 

taken  at  last. 
They  almost  reached  the  river  by  galloping 

hard  and  fast; 
But  the  boys  in  blue  were  upon  them  ere  ever 

they  gained  the  ford, 
And  Morgan,  Morgan  the  raider,  laid  down 

his  terrible  sword. 

Well,  I  kept  the  boy  till  evening  —  kept  him 

against  his  will  — 
But  he  was  too  weak  to  follow,  and  sat  there 

pale  and  still. 
When  it  was  cool  and  dusky  —  you  '11  wonder 

to  hear  me  tell  — 
But  I  stole  down  to  that  gully,  and  brought  up 

Kentucky  Belle. 

I  kissed  the  star  on  her  forehead  —  my  pretty 

gentle  lass  — 
But  I  knew  that  she'd  be  happy  back  in  the 

old  Blue  Grass. 


A  suit  of  clothes  of  Conrad's,  with  all  the 

money  I  had, 
And  Kentuck,  pretty  Kentuck,  I  gave  to  the 

worn-out  lad. 

I  guided  him  to  the  southward  as  well  as  I 
knew  how; 

The  boy  rode  off  with  many  thanks,  and  many 
a  backward  bow; 

And  then  the  glow  it  faded,  and  my  heart  be 
gan  to  swell, 

As  down  the  glen  away  she  went,  my  lost 
Kentucky  Belle! 

When  Conrad  came  in  the  evening,  the  moon 

was  shining  high ; 
Baby  and  I  were  both  crying  —  I  could  n't 

tell  him  why  — 
But  a  battered  suit  of  rebel  gray  was  hanging 

on  the  wall. 
And  a  thin  old  horse,  with  drooping  head, 

stood  in  Kentucky's  stall. 

Well,  he  was  kind,  and  never  once  said  a  hard 

word  to  me; 
He  knew  I  could  n't  help  it  —  't  was  all  for 

the  Tennessee. 
But,  after  the  war  was  over,  just  think  what 

came  to  pass  — 
A  letter,  sir;  and  the  two  were  safe  back  in 

the  old  Blue  Grass. 

The  lad  had  got  across  the  border,  riding 

Kentucky  Belle; 
And  Kentuck  she  was  thriving,  and  fat,  and 

hearty,  and  well; 
He  cared  for  her,  and  kept  her,  nor  touched 

her  with  whip  or  spur. 
Ah!  we've  had  many  horses  since,  but  never 

a  horse  like  her! 
CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 


Part  of  the  same  plot  was  the  draft  riot  which 
broke  out  in  New  York  City  on  July  13,  1863.  It 
lasted  four  days,  and  four  hundred  people  were 
killed  by  the  rioters.  The  draft  was  temporarily 
suspended,  but  was  quietly  resumed  in  August. 


THE  DRAFT  RIOT 

IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  TOWER:  NEW  YORK, 
JULY,   1863 

Is  it  the  wind,  the  many-tongued,  the  weird. 
That  cries  in  sharp  distress  about  the  eaves  ? 


LINCOLN   AT   GETTYSBURG 


497 


Is  it  the  wind  whose  gathering  shout  is  heard 
With   voice   of   peoples  myriad    like    the 

leaves  ? 

Is  it  the  wind  ?  Fly  to  the  casement,  quick, 
And  when  the  roar  comes  thick, 
Fling  wide  the  sash, 
Await  the  crash ! 

Nothing.  Some  various  solitary  cries,  — 

Some  sauntering  woman's  short  hard  laugh, 
Or  honester,  a  dog's  bark,  —  these  arise 

From  lamplit  street  up  to  this  free  flagstaff: 
Nothing   remains   of   that   low    threatening 

sound ; 

The  wind  raves  not  the  eaves  around. 
Clasp  casement  to,  — 
You  heard  not  true. 

Hark  there  again !  a  roar  that  holds  a  shriek ! 
But  not  without  —  no,  from  below  it  comes : 
What  pulses  up  from  solid  earth  to  wreck 

A  vengeful  word  on  towers  and  lofty  domes  ? 
What  angry  booming  doth  the  trembling  ear, 
Glued  to  the  stone  wall,  hear  — 
So  deep,  no  air 
Its  weight  can  bear? 

Grieve !  't  is  the  voice  of  ignorance  and  vice, — 
The  rage  of  slaves  who  fancy  they  are  free: 
Men  who  would  keep  men  slaves  at  any  price, 
Too  blind  their  own  black  manacles  to  see. 
Grieve!  'tis  that 'grisly  spectre  with  a  torch, 
Riot  —  that  bloodies  every  porch, 
Hurls  justice  down 
And  burns  the  town. 

CHARLES  DE  KAY. 


On  November  19,  1863,  a  portion  of  the  battle 
field  of  Gettysburg  was  consecrated  as  a  national 
military  cemetery.  It  was  there  that  President 
Lincoln's  famous  Gettysburg  address,  prepared 
almost  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  was  delivered. 
He  said :  — 

"Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation,  con 
ceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition 
that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  en 
gaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedi 
cated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great 
battle-field  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate 
a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting-place  for 
those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation 
might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that 
we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot 
dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow 


this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who 
struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our 
poor  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little 
note,  nor  long  remen.ber,  what  we  say  here,  but 
it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for 
us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the 
unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here  have 
thus  far  so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be 
here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before 
us.;  —  that  from  these  honored  dead,  we  take 
increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they 
gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion;  —  that  we 
here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have 
died  in  vain,  that  this  nation,  under  God,  shall 
have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  government 
of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth." 


LINCOLN  AT  GETTYSBURG 

From  the  "  Gettysburg  Ode" 
[November  19,  1863] 

AFTER  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 

Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 

What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence,  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him  ? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown 

dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 
The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  com 
plete, 

Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly  sweet; 
"Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  save  the  perilled  State! 
Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain !  — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth ! " 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 
To  light  her  faded  fire, 

And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful,  and  stern? 
His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated; 

For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 

We  hear  that  one  refrain : 
"We  consecrate  ourselves  to  them,  the  Con 
secrated!" 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CHAPTER  IX 


WITH   GRANT  ON   THE  MISSISSIPPI 


Grant  had  a  brief  repose  after  his  victories  at 
Shiloh  and  Corinth;  then  he  addressed  himself  to 
the  capture  of  Vicksburg.  The  Confederates  had 
made  a  second  Gibraltar  of  the  place,  and  so  long 
as  they  held  it  had  command  of  the  Mississippi. 
Early  in  April,  1863,  he  collected  his  army  at  New 
Carthage,  just  below  Vicksburg,  and  on  the  night 
of  April  16,  Porter's  fleet  ran  past  the  batteries, 
the  object  of  this  perilous  enterprise  being  to 
afford  means  for  carrying  the  troops  across  the 
river  and  for  covering  the  movement. 


RUNNING  THE  BATTERIES 

(As  observed  from  the  anchorage  above  Vicks 
burg,  April,  1863) 

A  MOONLESS  night  —  a  friendly  one; 

A  haze  dimmed  the  shadowy  shore 
As  the  first  lampless  boat  slid  silent  on ; 

Hist!  and  we  spake  no  more; 
We  but  pointed,  and  stilly,  to  what  we  saw. 

We  felt  the  dew,  and  seemed  to  feel 

The  secret  like  a  burden  laid. 
The  first  boat  melts;  and  a  second  keel 

Is  blent  with  the  foliaged  shade  — 
Their  midnight  rounds  have  the  rebel  officers 
made? 

Unspied  as  yet.  A  third  —  a  fourth  — 
Gunboat  and  transport  in  Indian  file 

Upon  the  war-path,  smooth  from  the  North; 
But  the  watch  may  they  hope  to  beguile  ? 

The  manned  river-batteries  stretch  far  mile 
on  mile. 

A  flame  leaps  out;  they  are  seen; 
Another  and  another  gun  roars; 
We  tell  the  course  of  the  boats  through  the 

screen 

By  each  further  fort  that  pours, 
And  we  guess  how  they  jump  from  their  beds 
on  those  shrouded  shores. 

Converging  fires.  We  speak,  though  low: 
"That  blastful  furnace  can  they  thread?" 

"Why,  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego 
Came  out  all  right,  we  read ; 

The  Lord,  be  sure,  he  helps  his  people,  Ned." 


How  we  strain  our  gaze.    On  bluffs  they 

shun 

A  golden  growing  flame  appears  — 
Confirms  to  a  silvery  steadfast  one: 
"The  town  is  afire!"  crows  Hugh;  "three 

cheers!" 

Lot  stops  his  mouth:  "Nay,  lad,  better  three 
tears." 

A  purposed  light;  it  shows  our  fleet; 

Yet  a  little  late  in  its  searching  ray. 
So  far  and  strong  that  in  phantom  cheat 

Lank  on  the  deck  our  shadows  lay; 
The  shining  flag-ship  stings  their  guns  to 
furious  play. 

How  dread  to  mark  her  near  the  glare 
And  glade  of  death  the  beacon  throws 

Athwart  the  racing  waters  there; 
One  by  one  each  plainer  grows, 

Then  speeds  a  blazoned  target  to  our  glad 
dened  foes. 

The  impartial  cresset  lights  as  well 
The  fixed  forts  to  the  boats  that  run; 

And,  plunged  from  the  ports,  their  answers 

swell 
Back  to  each  fortress  dun ; 

Ponderous  words  speaks  every  monster  gun. 

Fearless  they  flash  through  gates  of  flame, 

The  salamanders  hard  to  hit, 
Though  vivid  shows  each  bulky  frame; 

And  never  the  batteries  intermit, 
Nor  the  boat's  huge  guns;  they  fire  and  flit. 

Anon  a  lull.  The  beacon  dies. 

"Are  they  out  of  that  strait  accurst  ? " 
But  other  flames  now  dawning  rise. 

Not  mellowly  brilliant  like  the  first, 
But  rolled  in  smoke,  whose  whitish  volumes 
burst. 

A  baleful  brand,  a  hurrying  torch 
Whereby  anew  the  boats  are  seen  — 

A  burning  transport  all  alurch ! 

Breathless  we  gaze;  yet  still  we  glean 

Glimpses  of  beauty  as  we  eager  lean. 


VICKSBURG 


499 


The  effulgence  takes  an  amber  glow 
Which  bathes  the  hillside  villas  far; 

Affrighted  ladies  mark  the  show 
Painting  the  pale  magnolia  — 

The  fair,  false,  Circe  light  of  cruel  War. 

The  barge  drifts  doomed,  a  plague-struck  one, 
Shoreward  in  yawls  the  sailors  fly. 

But  the  gauntlet  now  is  nearly  run, 
The  spleenful  forts  by  fits  reply. 

And  the  burning  boat  dies  down  in  morning's 
sky. 

All  out  of  range.  Adieu,  Messieurs! 

Jeers,  as  it  speeds,  our  parting  gun. 
So  burst  we  through  their  barriers 

And  menaces  every  one; 
So  Porter  proves  himself  a  brave  man's  son. 
HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


The  army  was  at  once  taken  across  the  river 
and  on  May  19.  1863,  a  general  assault  was  made 
on  the  town.  This  was  repulsed  with  severe  loss. 
and  Grant  thereupon  settled  down  for  a  regular 
siege. 

BEFORE  VICKSBURG 

[May  18-  July  4,  1863] 

WHILE  Sherman  stood  beneath  the  hottest 

fire, 

That  from  the  lines  of  Vicksburg  gleamed, 
And  bomb-shells  tumbled  in  their  smoky 


And    grape-shot    hissed,    and    case-shot 

screamed  ; 

Back  from  the  front  there  came, 
Weeping  and  sorely  lame, 
The  merest  child,  the  youngest  face 
Man  ever  saw  in  such  a  fearful  place. 

Stifling  his  tears,  he  limped   his    chief    to 

meet; 

But  when  he  paused,  and  tottering  stood, 
Around  the  circle  of  his  little  feet 

There  spread  a  pool  of  bright,  young  blood. 
Shocked  at  his  doleful  case, 
Sherman  cried,  "Halt!  front  face! 
Who  are  you?   Speak,  my  gallant  boy!" 
"A  drummer,  sir:  —  Fifty-fifth  Illinois." 

"Are  you  not  hit?"  "That's  nothing.   Only 

send 
Some  cartridges:  our  men  are  out; 


And    the  foe    press    us."    "But,    my  little 

friend — " 

"Don't  mind  me !  Did  you  hear  that  shout  ? 
What  if  our  men  be  driven  ? 
Oh,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
Send  to  my  Colonel,  General  dear ! " 
"  But  you  ?  "  "  Oh,  I  shall  easily  find  the  rear." 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  cried  Sherman;  and  a  drop, 

Angels  might  envy,  dimmed  his  eye, 
As  the  boy,  toiling  towards  the  hill's  hard  top, 
Turned  round,  and  with  his  shrill  child's 

cry 

Shouted,  "Oh,  don't  forget! 
We'll  win  the  battle  yet! 
But  let  our  soldiers  have  some  more. 
More  cartridges,  sir,  —  calibre  fifty-four ! " 
GEORGE  HENRY  BOKEB. 


The  place  was  completely  invested  and  a  terrific 
bombardment  maintained  until  July  3. 1863,  when 
the  town  surrendered,  and  on  the  next  day.  the 
Confederate  troops  in  the  place,  to  the  number 
of  twenty-seven  thousand,  laid  down  their  arms. 


VICKSBURG 

FOR  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
'If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said. 
'Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 
Be  ramparts  of  the  dead ! " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards. 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim; 
And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses. 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts. 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts: 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped. 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread 


5oo 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  the  little  children  gambolled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed; 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice-mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster. 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

Those  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide: 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HATNE. 


Just  at  noon  of  July  4,  1863,  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  was  run  up  over  the  court-house,  and  the 
Union  troops,  seeing  it,  started  to  sing  "The 
Battle-Cry  of  Freedom."  By  mid-afternoon  the 
possession  of  the  post  was  absolute  and  the  Union 
fleet  lay  at  the  levee. 

THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  FREEDOM 

YES,  we'll  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  we'll 

rally  once  again, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
We  will  rally  from  the  hill-side,  we'll  gather 

from  the  plain, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
Churus  —  The  Union  forever,  hurrah!  boys, 

hurrah ! 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with 

the  star, 
While  we  rally  round  the  flag,  boys, 

rally  once  again. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  free 
dom. 

We  are  springing  to  the  call  of  our  brothers 

gone  before. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 


And  we'll  fill  the  vacant  ranks  with  a  million 

freemen  more. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  will  welcome  to  our  numbers  the  loyal, 

true,  and  brave. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  altho'  they  may  be  poor,  not  a  man  shall 

be  a  slave, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

So  we're  springing  to  the  call  from  the  East 

and  from  the  West, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  we'll  hurl  the  rebel  crew  from  the  land 

we  love  the  best, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  ROOT. 


Meanwhile,  General  Banks  had  been  besieging 
Port  Hudson,  a  position  scarcely  less  formidable 
than  Vicksburg,  and  on  May  24,  1863,  had  driven 
the  Confederates  within  their  inner  line  of  in- 
trenchments.  Three  days  later,  a  general  assault 
took  place,  in  which  the  First  and  Second  Louisi 
ana,  colored  troops,  bore  a  prominent  part. 

THE  BLACK  REGIMENT 

[May  27,  1863] 

DARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dead  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land,  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

"Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"Though  death  and  hell  betide, 


THE   BALLAD   OF   CHICKAMAUGA 


Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again ! " 
Oh,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment! 

"  Charge ! "  trump  and  drum  awoke ; 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands, 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

"Freedom  !"  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom !  or  leave  to  die ! " 

Ah !   and  they  meant  the  word. 

Not  as  with  us  't  is  heard, 

Not  a  mere  party  shout: 

They  gave  their  spirits  out; 

Trusted  the  end  to  God, 

And  on  the  gory  sod 

Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 

Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 

Whether  for  weal  or  woe; 

Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 

Though  on  the  lips  of  death; 

Praying,  —  alas !  in  vain ! 

That  they  might  fall  again, 

So  they  could  once  more  see 

That  burst  to  liberty! 

This  was  what  "freedom"  lent 

To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell; 
But  they  are  resting  well; 
Scourges,  and  shackles  stroag 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
Oh,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side; 


Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


Shortly  after  the  fall  of  Vicksburg,  Grant  was 
severely  injured  by  a  fall  from  a  horse,  and  it  was 
some  months  before  he  could  take  the  field  again. 
Most  of  his  troops  were  sent  to  reinforce  the  Army 
of  the  Cumberland,  under  Rosecrans,  which  was 
operating  against  the  Confederates  under  Bragg, 
in  Tennessee.  Chattanooga  was  occupied  by  the 
Union  forces  on  September  16,  1863.  Rosecrans 
pushed  forward  to  the  Chickamauga  valley,  where, 
on  September  18,  Bragg  attacked  in  force.  The 
battle-  raged  for  two  days,  the  Union  line  was 
broken,  and  General  Thomas  and  his  division 
were  isolated  on  a  slope  of  Missionary  Ridge. 
Assault  after  assault  was  delivered  against  him, 
but  he  stood  like  a  rock,  and  at  sundown  still  held 
the  position. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CHICKAMAUGA 

[September  19,  20,  1863] 

By  Chickamauga's  crooked  stream  the  mar 
tial  trumpets  blew; 

The  North  and  South  stood  face  to  face,  with 
War's  dread  work  to  do. 

O  lion-strong,  unselfish,  brave,  twin  athletes 
battle-wise, 

Brothers  yet  enemies,  the  fire  of  conflict  in 
their  eyes. 

All  banner-led  and  bugle-stirred,  they  set 
them  to  the  fight, 

Hearing  the  god  of  slaughter  laugh  from 
mountain  height  to  height. 

The  ruddy,  fair-haired,  giant  North  breathed 
loud  and  strove  amain ; 

The  swarthy  shoulders  of  the  South  did  heave 
them  to  the  strain; 

An  earthquake  shuddered  underfoot,  a  cloud 
rolled  overhead: 

And  serpent-tongues  of  flame  cut  through  and 
lapped  and  twinkled  red, 

Where  back  and  forth  a  bullet-stream  went 
singing  like  a  breeze, 

What  time  the  snarling  cannon-balls  to  splin 
ters  tore  the  trees. 

"Make  way,  make  way!"  a  voice  boomed 
out,  "I'm  marching  to  the  sea!" 

The  answer  was  a  rebel  yell  and  Bragg's  ar 
tillery. 

Where  Negley  struck,  the  cohorts  gray  like 
storm-tossed  clouds  were  rent; 


502 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Where  Buckner  charged,  a  cyclone  fell,  the 

blue  to  tatters  went; 
The  noble  Brannan  cheered  his  men,  Pat 

Cleburne  answered  back, 
And  Lytle  stormed,  and  life  was  naught  in 

Walthall's  bloody  track. 

Old  Taylor's  Ridge  rocked  to  its  base,  and 

Pigeon  Mountain  shook; 
And  Helm  went  down,  and  Lytle  died,  and 

broken  was  McCook. 
Van  Cleve  moved  like  a  hurricane,  a  tempest 

blew  with  Hood, 
Awful  the  sweep  of  Breckenridge  across  the 

flaming  wood. 
Never  before  did  battle-roar  such  chords  of 

thunder  make, 
Never  again  shall  tides  of  men  over  such 

barriers  break. 

"Stand  fast,  stand  fast!"  cried  Rosecrans; 
and  Thomas  said,  "I  will!" 

And,  crash  on  crash,  his  batteries  dashed  their 
broadsides  down  the  hill. 

Brave  Longstreet's  splendid  rush  tore  through 
whatever  barred  its  track, 

Till  the  Rock  of  Chickamauga  hurled  the 
roaring  columns  back, 

And  gave  the  tide  of  victory  a  red  tinge  of  de 
feat, 

Adding  a  noble  dignity  to  that  hard  word, 
retreat. 

Two  days  they  fought,  and  evermore  those 

days  shall  stand  apart, 
Keynotes  of  epic  chivalry  within  the  nation's 

heart. 
Come,  come,  and  set  the  carven  rocks  to  mark 

this  glorious  spot; 
Here  let  the  deeds  of  heroes  live,  their  hatreds 

be  forgot. 
Build,  build,  but  never  monument  of  stone 

shall  last  as  long 
As  one  old  soldier's  ballad  borne  on  breath  of 

battle-song. 

MAURICE  THOMPSON. 

THOMAS  AT  CHICKAMAUGA 

[September  19,20.  1863J 

IT  was  that  6erce  contested  field  when  Chick 
amauga  lay 

Beneath  the  wild  tornado  that  swept  her  pride 
away; 


Her  dimpling  dales  and  circling  hills  dyed 

crimson  with  the  flood 
That  had  its  sources  in  the  springs  that  throb 

with  human  blood. 

"Go  say  to  General  Hooker  to  reinforce  his 

right!" 
Said    Thomas    to   his   aide-de-camp,    when 

wildly  went  the  fight; 
In  front  the  battle  thundered,  it  roared  both 

right  and  left, 
But  like  a  rock  "Pap"  Thomas  stood  upon 

the  crested  cleft. 

"Where  will  I  find  you,  General,  when  I  re 
turn?"  The  aide 

Leaned  on  his  bridle-rein  to  wait  the  answer 
Thomas  made; 

The  old  chief  like  a  lion  turned,  his  pale  lips 
set  and  sere, 

And  shook  his  mane,  and  stamped  his  foot, 
and  fiercely  answered,  "Here/" 

The  floodtide  of  fraternal  strife  rolled  upward 
to  his  feet, 

And  like  the  breakers  on  the  shore  the  thun 
derous  clamors  beat; 

The  sad  earth  rocked  and  reeled  with  woe, 
the  woodland  shrieked  in  pain, 

And  hill  and  vale  were  groaning  with  the  bur 
den  of  the  slain. 

Who  does  not  mind  that  sturdy  form,  that 
steady  heart  and  hand, 

That  calm  repose  and  gallant  mien,  that  cour 
age  high  and  grand  ?  — 

O  God,  who  givest  nations  men  to  meet  their 
lofty  needs, 

Vouchsafe  another  Thomas  when  our  country 
prostrate  bleeds! 

They  fought  with  all  the  fortitude  of  earnest 
men  and  true  — 

The  men  who  wore  the  rebel  gray,  the  men 
who  wore  the  blue; 

And  those,  they  fought  most  valiantly  for 
petty  state  and  clan, 

And  these,  for  truer  Union  and  the  brother 
hood  of  man. 

They  come,  those  hurling  legions,  with  ban 
ners  crimson-splashed, 

Against  our  stubborn  columns  their  rushing 
ranks  are  dashed, 


GARFIELD'S   RIDE  AT   CHICKAMAUGA 


503 


Till  'neath  the  blistering  iron  hail  the  shy  and 

frightened  deer 
Go  scurrying  from   their  forest  haunts  to 

plunge  in  wilder  fear. 

Beyond,  our  lines  are  broken;  and  now  in 
frenzied  rout 

The  flower  of  the  Cumberland  has  swiftly 
faced  about; 

And  horse  and  foot  and  color-guard  are  reel 
ing,  rear  and  van, 

And  in  the  awful  panic  man  forgets  that  he 
is  man. 

Now  Bragg,  with  pride  exultant  above  our 

broken  wings, 
The  might  of  all  his  army  against  "Pap" 

Thomas  brings; 
They're  massing  to  the  right  of  him,  they're 

massing  to  the  left, 
Ah,  God  be  with  our  hero,  who  holds  the 

crested  cleft! 

Blow,  blow,  ye  echoing  bugles!  give  answer, 

screaming  shell! 
Go,  belch  your  murderous  fury,  ye  batteries 

of  heU! 
Ring  out,  O  impious  musket!  spin  on,  O 

shattering  shot,  — 
Our  smoke-encircled  hero,  he  hears  but  heeds 

ye  not! 

Now  steady,  men!  now  steady!   make  one 

more  valiant  stand, 
For  gallant  Steedman's  coming,  his  forces  well 

in  hand! 
Close  up  your  shattered  columns,  take  steady 

aim  and  true. 
The  chief  who  loves  you  as  his  life  will  live  or 

die  with  you ! 

By  solid  columns,  on  they  come;  by  columns 
they  are  hurled, 

As  down  the  eddying  rapids  the  storm-swept 
booms  are  whirled; 

And  when  the  ammunition  fails  —  O  mo 
ment  drear  and  dread  — 

The  heroes  load  their  blackened  guns  from 
rounds  of  soldiers  dead. 

God  never  set  His  signet  on  the  hearts  of 

braver  men, 
Or  fixed  the  goal  of  victory  on  higher  heights 

than  then; 


With  bayonets  and  muskets  clubbed,  they 
close  the  rush  and  roar; 

Their  stepping-stones  to  glory  are  their  com 
rades  gone  before. 

O  vanished  majesty  of  days  not  all  forgotten 

yet, 
We  consecrate  unto  thy  praise  one  hour  of 

deep  regret; 
One  hour  to  them  whose  days  were  years  of 

glory  that  shall  flood 
The   Nation's    sombre   night    of  tears,   of 

carnage,  and  of  blood ! 

O  vanished  majesty  of  days,  when  men  were 

gauged  by  worth, 
Set  crowned  and  dowered  in  the  way  to  judge 

the  sons  of  earth ; 
When  all  the  little  great  fell  down  before  the 

great  unknown, 
And  priest  put  off  the  hampering  gown  and 

coward  donned  his  own! 

O  vanished  majesty  of  days  that  saw  the  sun 

shine  on 
The  deeds  that  wake  sublimer  praise  than 

Ghent  or  Marathon ; 
When   patriots  in   homespun   rose  —  where 

one  was  called  for,  ten  — 
And   heroes  sprang  full-armored   from   the 

humblest  walks  of  men ! 

O  vanished  majesty  of  days !    Rise,  type  and 

mould  to-day. 
And  teach  our  sons  to  follow  on  where  duty 

leads  the  way; 
That  whatsoever  trial  comes,  defying  doubt 

and  fear, 
They  in  the  thickest  fight  shall  stand  and 

proudly  answer,  "Here  !  " 

KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 

Rosecrans  could  not  reinforce  Thomas,  and  at 
four  o'clock  General  James  A.  Garfield  was  in 
trusted  with  the  perilous  task  of  taking  him  an 
order  to  withdraw.  Garfield  got  to  Thomas  safely 
and  the  retreat  began  at  sundown.  The  Confed 
erates  attempted  no  pursuit. 

GARFIELD'S  RIDE  AT  CHICKA 
MAUGA 

[September  20,  1863] 

AOAIN  the  summer-fevered  skies, 
The  breath  of  autumn  calms; 

Again  the  golden  moons  arise 
On  harvest-happy  farms. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  locusts  pipe,  the  crickets  sing 

Among  the  falling  leaves, 
And  wandering  breezes  sigh,  and  bring 

The  harp-notes  of  the  sheaves. 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  hills  and  dells; 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  seas ; 
And  drop  the  notes  of  happy  bells 

Upon  the  fruited  trees. 
The  broad  Missouri  stretches  far 

Her  commerce-gathering  arms, 
And  multiply  on  Arkansas 

The  grain-encumbered  farms. 

Old  Chattanooga,  crowned  with  green, 
Sleeps  'neath  her  walls  in  peace; 

The  Argo  has  returned  again, 
And  brings  the  Golden  Fleece. 

0  nation !  free  from  sea  to  sea, 
In  union  blessed  forever, 

Fair  be  their  fame  who  fought  for  thee 
By  Chickamauga  River. 

The  autumn  winds  were  piping  low, 

Beneath  the  vine-clad  eaves; 
We  heard  the  hollow  bugle  blow 

Among  the  ripened  sheaves. 
And  fast  the  mustering  squadrons  passed 

Through  mountain  portals  wide, 
And  swift  the  blue  brigades  were  massed 

By  Chickamauga's  tide. 

It  was  the  Sabbath ;  and  in  awe 

We  heard  the  dark  hills  shake, 
And  o'er  the  mountain  turrets  saw 

The  smoke  of  battle  break. 
And  'neath  the  war-cloud,  gray  and  grand, 

The  hills  o'erhanging  low, 
The  Army  of  the  Cumberland, 

Unequal,  met  the  foe! 

Again,  O  fair  September  night! 
Beneath  the  moon  and  stars, 

1  see,  through  memories  dark  and  bright, 
The  altar-fires  of  Mars. 

The  morning  breaks  with  screaming  guns 

From  batteries  dark  and  dire. 
And  where  the  Chickamauga  runs 

Red  runs  the  muskets'  fire. 

I  see  bold  Longstreet's  darkening  host 
Sweep  through  our  lines  of  flame, 

And  hear  again,  "The  right  is  lost!" 
Swart  Rosecrans  exclaim. 

"But  not  the  left!"  young  Garfield  cries; 
"From  that  we  must  not  sever, 


While  Thomas  holds  the  field  that  lies 
On  Chickamauga  River!" 

Oh !  on  that  day  of  clouded  gold, 

How,  half  of  hope  bereft. 
The  cannoneers,  like  Titans,  rolled 

Their  thunders  on  the  left! 
I  see  the  battle-clouds  again. 

With  glowing  autumn  splendors  blending: 
It  seemed  as  if  the  gods  with  men 

Were  on  Olympian  heights  contending. 

Through  tongues  of  flame,  through  meadows 
brown, 

Dry  valley  roads  concealed, 
Ohio's  hero  dashes  down 

Upon  the  rebel  field. 
And  swift,  on  reeling  charger  borne, 

He  threads  the  wooded  plain, 
By  twice  a  hundred  cannon  mown, 

And  reddened  with  the  slain. 

But  past  the  swathes  of  carnage  dire, 

The  Union  guns  he  hears. 
And  gains  the  left,  begirt  with  fire, 

And  thus  the  heroes  cheers  — 
"While  stands  the  left,  yon  flag  o'erhead> 

Shall  Chattanooga  stand ! " 
"Let  the  Napoleons  rain  their  lead!" 

Was  Thomas's  command. 

Back  swept  the  gray  brigades  of  Bragg; 

The  air  with  victory  rung; 
And  Wurzel's  "Rally  round  the  flag!" 

'Mid  Union  cheers  was  sung. 
The  flag  on  Chattanooga's  height 

In  twilight's  crimson  waved. 
And  all  the  clustered  stars  of  white 

Were  to  the  Union  saved. 

O  chief  of  staff !  the  nation's  fate 
That  red  field  crossed  with  thee, 

The  triumph  of  the  camp  and  state, 
The  hope  of  liberty! 

0  nation !  free  from  sea  to  sea. 
With  union  blessed  forever. 

Not  vainly  heroes  fought  for  thee 
By  Chickamauga  River. 

In  dreams  I  stand  beside  the  tide 

Where  those  old  heroes  fell: 
Above  the  valleys  long  and  wide 

Sweet  rings  the  Sabbath  bell. 

1  hear  no  more  the  bugle  blow, 
As  on  that  fateful  day! 


THE   BATTLE   OF   LOOKOUT   MOUNTAIN 


505 


I  hear  the  ringdove  fluting  low, 
Where  shaded  waters  stray. 

On  Mission  Ridge  the  sunlight  streams 

Above  the  fields  of  fall. 
And  Chattanooga  calmly  dreams 

Beneath  her  mountain-wall. 
Old  Lookout  Mountain  towers  on  high, 

As  in  heroic  days, 
When  'neath  the  battle  in  the  sky 

Were  seen  its  summits  blaze. 

'T  was  ours  to  lay  no  garlands  fair 

Upon  the  graves  "unknown": 
Kind  Nature  sets  her  gentians  there, 

And  fall  the  sear  leaves  lone. 
Those  heroes'  graves  no  shaft  of  Mars 

May  mark  with  beauty  ever; 
But  floats  the  flag  of  forty  stars 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

This  defeat  brought  Grant  into  the  field  again, 
though  he  was  still  on  crutches.  The  Confederates 
held  a  strong  position  on  Missionary  Ridge  and 
Lookout  Mountain,  and  Grant  prepared  to  attack. 
On  November  24,  1863,  Hooker's  brigade  moved 
forward  to  the  northern  face  of  Lookout  Mountain, 
drove  the  enemy  from  their  rifle  pits  and  intrench- 
ments,  and  then  started  after  them  up  the  slope. 
The  mountain  was  enveloped  in  a  dense  fog,  and 
into  this  Hooker's  men  disappeared.  During  the 
night  the  Confederates  delivered  a  savage  assault, 
but  were  beaten  off.  At  dawn,  when  the  Union 
troops  scaled  the  palisades,  they  found  the  in- 
trenchments  at  the  top  deserted,  and  unfurled  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  from  the  summit  of  Pulpit  Rock. 
The  Confederates  were  dislodged  next  day  from 
Missionary  Ridge  and  were  soon  in  full  retreat. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUN 
TAIN 

[November  24,  1863] 

"GiVE  me  but  two  brigades,"  said  Hooker. 

frowning  at  fortified  Lookout; 
"And  I'll  engage  to  sweep  yon  mountain  clear 

of  that  mocking  rebel  rout." 
At  early  morning  came  an  order,  that  set  the 

General's  face  aglow: 
"Now,"  said  he  to  his  staff,  "draw  out  my 

soldiers!   Grant  says  that  I  may  go." 

Hither  and  thither  dashed  each  eager  Colo 
nel,  to  join  his  regiment, 

While  a  low  rumor  of  the  daring  purpose  ran 
on  from  tent  to  tent. 


For  the  long  roll  was  sounding  through  the 
valley,  and  the  keen  trumpet's  bray. 

And  the  wild  laughter  of  the  swarthy  veterans, 
who  cried,  "We  fight  to-day!" 

The  solid  tramp  of  infantry,  the  rumble  of  the 
great  jolting  gun, 

The  sharp,  clear  order,  and  the  fierce  steeds 
neighing,  "  Why  's  not  the  fight  be 
gun?" 

All  these  plain  harbingers  of  sudden  conflict 
broke  on  the  startled  ear; 

And  last  arose  a  sound  that  made  your  blood 
leap,  the  ringing  battle-cheer. 

The  lower  works  were  carried  at  one  onset; 

like  a  vast  roaring  sea 
Of  steel  and  fire,  our  soldiers  from  the  trenches 

swept  out  the  enemy; 
And  we  could  see  the  gray-coats  swarming  up 

from  the  mountain's  leafy  base, 
To  join  their  comrades  in  the  higher  fastness, 

—  for  life  or  death  the  race ! 

Then  our  long  line  went  winding  up  the  moun 
tain,  in  a  huge  serpent-track, 

And  the  slant  sun  upon  it  flashed  and  glim 
mered  as  on  a  dragon's  back. 

Higher  and  higher  the  column's  head  pushed 
onward,  ere  the  rear  moved  a  man; 

And  soon  the  skirmish-lines  their  straggling 
volleys  and  single  shots  began. 

Then  the  bald  head  of  Lookout  flamed  and 
bellowed,  and  all  its  batteries  woke. 

And  down  the  mountain  poured  the  bomb 
shells,  puffing  into  our  eyes  their  smoke; 

And  balls  and  grape-shot  rained  upon  our 
column,  that  bore  the  angry  shower 

As  if  it  were  no  more  than  that  soft  dropping 
which  scarcely  stirs  the  flower. 

Oh,  glorious  courage  that  inspires  the  hero, 

and  runs  through  all  his  men! 
The  heart  that  failed  beside  the  Rappahan- 

nock,  it  was  itself  again ! 
The  star  that  circumstance  and  jealous  faction 

shrouded  in  envious  night 
Here  shone  with  all  the  splendor  of  its  nature, 

and  with  a  freer  light! 

Hark,  hark !  there  go  the  well-known  crashing 
volleys,  the  long-continued  roar 

That  swells  and  falls,  but  never  ceases  wholly 
until  the  fight  is  o'er. 


500 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Up  towards  the  crystal  gates  of  heaven  ascend 
ing,  the  mortal  tempest  beat, 

As  if  they  sought  to  try  their  cause  together 
before  God's  very  feet. 

We  saw  our  troops  had  gained  a  footing  al 
most  beneath  the  topmost  ledge. 

And  back  and  forth  the  rival  lines  went  surg 
ing  upon  the  dizzy  edge. 

We  saw,  sometimes,  our  men  fall  backward 
slowly,  and  groaned  in  our  despair; 

Or  cheered  when  now  and  then  a  stricken 
rebel  plunged  out  in  open  air. 

Down,  down,  a  thousand  empty  fathoms 
dropping,  —  his  God  alone  knows 
where ! 

At  eve  thick  haze  upon  the  mountain  gathered, 

with  rising  smoke  stained  black, 
And  not  a  glimpse  of  the  contending  armies 

shone  through  the  swirling  rack. 
Night  fell  o'er  all;  but  still  they  flashed  their 

lightnings  and  rolled  their  thunders 

loud, 
Though  no  man  knew  upon  which  side  was 

going  that  battle  in  the  cloud. 

Night  —  what  a  night !  —  of  anxious  thought 
and  wonder,  but  still  no  tidings  came 

From  the  bare  summit  of  the  trembling  moun 
tain,  still  wrapped  in  mist  and  flame. 

But  towards  the  sleepless  dawn,  stillness,  more 
dreadful  than  the  fierce  sound  of  war, 

Settled  o'er  Nature,  as  if  she  stood  breathless 
before  the  morning  star. 

As  the  sun  rose,  dense  clouds  of  smoky  vapor 

boiled  from  the  valley's  deeps, 
Dragging  their  torn  and  ragged  edges  slowly 

up  through  the  tree-clad  steeps; 
And  rose  and  rose,  till  Lookout,  like  a  vision, 

above  us  grandly  stood. 
And  over  his  bleak  crags  and  storm-blanched 

headlands    burst   the    warm    golden 

flood. 

Thousands  of  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  moun 
tain,  and  thousands  held  their  breath, 

And  the  vast  army,  in  the  valley  watching, 
seemed  touched  with  sudden  death. 

High  o'er  us  soared  great  Lookout,  robed  in 
purple,  a  glory  on  his  face, 

A  human  meaning  in  his  hard,  calm  features, 
beneath  that  heavenly  grace. 


Out  on  a  crag  walked  something  —  what  ? 
an  eagle,  that  treads  yon  giddy  height  ? 

Surely  no  man !  but  still  he  clambered  forward 
into  the  full,  rich  light. 

Then  up  he  started,  with  a  sudden  motion, 
and  from  the  blazing  crag 

Flung  to  the  morning  breeze  and  sunny  radi 
ance  the  dear  old  starry  flag! 

Ah!  then  what  followed?  Scarred  and  war 
worn  soldiers,  like  girls,  flushed 
through  their  tan, 

And  down  the  thousand  wrinkles  of  the  bat 
tles  a  thousand  tear-drops  ran. 

Men  seized  each  other  in  returned  embraces, 
and  sobbed  for  very  love; 

A  spirit,  which  made  all  that  moment  bro 
thers,  seemed  falling  from  above. 

And  as  we  gazed,  around  the  mountain's  sum 
mit  our  glittering  files  appeared, 

Into  the  rebel  works  we  saw  them  moving ;  and 
we  —  we  cheered,  we  cheered ! 

And  they  above  waved  all  their  flags  before 
us,  and  joined  our  frantic  shout. 

Standing,  like  demigods,  in  light  and  triumph 
upon  their  own  Lookout ! 

GEORGE  HENRY  BOKER. 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUDS 

[November  24,  1863] 

WHERE  the  dews  and  the  rains  of  heaven  have 

their  fountain. 
Like  its  thunder  and  its  lightning  our  brave 

burst  on  the  foe. 
Up  above  the  clouds  on  Freedom's  Lookout 

Mountain 
Raining  life-blood  like  water  on  the  valleys 

down  below. 

Oh,  green  be  the  laurels  that  grow. 
Oh,  sweet  be  the  wild-buds  that  blow. 
In  the  dells  of  the  mountain  where  the  brave 
are  lying  low. 

Light  of  our  hope  and  crown  of  our  story. 
Bright  as  sunlight,  pure  as  starlight  shall 

their  deed  of  daring  glow, 
While  the  day  and  the  night  out  of  heaven  shed 

their  glory, 

On  Freedom's  Lookout  Mountain  whence 
they  routed  Freedom's  foe. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON  HARBOR 


507 


Oh,  soft  be  the  gales  when  they  go 
Through  the  pines  on  the  summit  where 

they  blow, 

Chanting  solemn   music  for  the  souls  that 
passed  below. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 

By  the  autumn  of  1862,  the  Union  forces  had 
established  themselves  firmly  on  the  North  Caro 
lina  coast,  and  early  in  the  following  year  prepara 
tions  were  made  to  attack  Charleston,  the  very 
head  and  front  of  the  Confederacy. 

CHARLESTON 

[April,  1863] 

CAI.M  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud. 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep,  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud. 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie 
couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood,  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with 

trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men. 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's 

blade 
As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow 

dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound. 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of 

him 
Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and 
dome. 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 


Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon 
lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine. 

From  some  frail  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in 

smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned 

isles, 
As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom: 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 

HENRY  TIMROD. 

On  April  7,  1863,  a  strong  squadron  under  Ad 
miral  Dupont  attempted  to  enter  the  harbor  and 
reduce  Fort  Sumter,  but  got  such  a  warm  recep 
tion  that  it  was  forced  to  withdraw.  One  ship  was 
sunk  and  the  others  badly  damaged. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  CHARLESTON 
HARBOR 

[April  7,  18631 

Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime  of  a 
blithe  April  day, 

The  Northmen's  mailed  "Invincibles" 
steamed  up  fair  Charleston  Bay; 

They  came  in  sullen  file,  and  slow,  low- 
breasted  on  the  wave, 

Black  as  a  midnight  front  of  storm,  and  silent 
as  the  grave. 

A  thousand  warrior-hearts  beat  high  as  those 

dread  monsters  drew 
More  closely  to  the  game  of  death  across  the 

breezeless  blue, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  hearts  of  those  who 

watch  the  scene  afar. 
Thrill  in  the  awful  hush  that  bides  the  battle's 

broadening  star. 

Each  gunner,  moveless  by  his  gun,  with  rigid 

aspect  stands. 
The  reedy  linstocks  firmly  grasped  in  bold, 

untrembling  hands, 


5o8 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


So  moveless  in  their  marbled  calm,  their  stern, 

heroic  guise, 
They  look  like  forms  of  statued  stone  with 

burning  human  eyes! 

Our  banners  on  the  outmost  walls,  with  stately 
rustling  fold, 

Flash  back  from  arch  and  parapet  the  sun 
light's  ruddy  gold,  — 

They  mount  to  the  deep  roll  of  drums,  and 
widely  echoing  cheers, 

And  then,  once  more,  dark,  breathless, 
hushed,  wait  the  grim  cannoneers. 

Onward,  in  sullen  file,  and  slow,  low-gloom 
ing  on  the  wave. 

Near,  nearer  still,  the  haughty  fleet  glides 
silent  as  the  grave, 

When  shivering  the  portentous  calm  o'er 
startled  flood  and  shore, 

Broke  from  the  sacred  Island  Fort  the  thun 
der-wrath  of  yore! 

Ha!  brutal  Corsairs!  though  ye  come  thrice- 
cased  in  iron  mail, 

Beware  the  storm  that's  opening  now,  God's 
vengeance  guides  the  hail ! 

Ye  strive,  the  ruffian  types  of  Might,  'gainst 
law  and  truth  and  Right; 

Now  quail  beneath  a  sturdier  Power,  and  own 
a  mightier  Might! 

The  storm  has  burst!  and  while  we  speak, 

more  furious,  wilder,  higher. 
Dart  from  the  circling  batteries  a  hundred 

tongues  of  fire; 
The  waves  gleam  red,  the  lurid  vault  of  heaven 

seems  rent  above  — 
Fight  on,  O  knightly  gentlemen !  for  faith,  and 

home,  and  love! 

There's  not,  in  all  that  line  of  flame,  one  soul 

that  would  not  rise 
To  seize  the  victor's  wreath  of  blood,  though 

death  must  give  the  prize; 
There's  not,  in  all  this  anxious  crowd  that 

throngs  the  ancient  town, 
A  maid  who  does  not  yearn  for  power  to  strike 

one  foeman  down! 

The  conflict  deepens!  ship  by  ship  the  proud 

Armada  sweeps. 
Where  fierce  from  Sumter's  raging  breast  the 

volleyed  lightning  leaps; 


And  ship  by  ship,  raked,  overborne,  ere  burned 

the  sunset  light, 
Crawls  in  the  gloom  of  baffled  hate  beyond  the 

field  of  fight! 

O  glorious  Empress  of  the  Main!  from  out 

thy  storied  spires 
Thou  well  mayst  peal  thy  bells  of  joy,  and 

light  thy  festal  fires,  — 
Since  Heaven  this  day  hath  striven  for  thee, 

hath  nerved  thy  dauntless  sons, 
And  thou  in  clear-eyed  faith  hast  seen  God's 

angels  near  the  guns! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


It  was  evident  that  the  fleet  by  itself  could 
accomplish  nothing,  and  a  land  attack  was  there 
fore  planned  against  Fort  Wagner,  a  very  strong 
work,  fully  garrisoned  by  veterans.  It  was  stormed 
on  the  evening  of  July  18,  1863,  the  Fifty- Fourth 
Massachusetts  (colored).  Colonel  Robert  Gould 
Shaw,  leading.  He  was  killed  in  the  first  assault 
and  his  regiment  was  decimated.  The  Confederates 
buried  Shaw  "  in  a  pit  under  a  heap  of  his  niggers." 


BURY  THEM 

(WAQNEB,  July  18,1863) 

BURY  the  Dragon's  Teeth ! 

Bury  them  deep  and  dark ! 
The  incisors  swart  and  stark. 
The  molars  heavy  and  dark  — 

And  the  one  white  Fang  underneath ! 

Bury  the  Hope  Forlorn! 

Never  shudder  to  fling, 
With  its  fellows  dusky  and  worn. 

The  strong  and  beautiful  thing 
(Pallid  ivory  and  pearl!) 

Into  the  horrible  Pit  — 
Hurry  it  in,  and  hurl 

All  the  rest  over  it! 

Trample  them,  clod  by  clod. 
Stamp  them  in  dust  amain ! 
The  cuspids,  cruent  and  red, 
That  the  Monster,  Freedom,  shed 

On  the  sacred,  strong  Slave-Sod  — 
They  never  shall  rise  again ! 

Never  ?  —  what  hideous  growth 

Is  sprouting  through  clod  and  clay? 
What  Terror  starts  to  the  day  ? 

A  crop  of  steel,  on  our  oath! 

How  the  burnished  stamens  glance! 


PUT  IT  THROUGH 


Spike,  and  anther,  and  blade, 
How  they  "burs!  from  the  bloody  shade, 
And  spindle  to  spear  and  lance! 

There  are  tassels  of  blood-red  Maize  — 
How  the  horrible  Harvest  grows! 

*T  is  sabres  that  glint  and  daze  — 

*T  is  bayonets  all  ablaze 

Uprearing  in  dreadful  rows! 

For  one  that  we  buried  there, 
A  thousand  are  come  to  air! 
Ever,  by  door-stone  and  hearth, 
They  break  from  the  angry  earth  — 

And  out  of  the  crimson  sand. 
Where  the  cold  white  Fang  was  laid, 
Rises  a  terrible  Shade, 

The  Wraith  of  a  sleepless  Brand ! 

And  our  hearts  wax  strange  and  chill, 
With  an  ominous  shudder  and  thrill. 

Even  here,  on  the  strong  Slave-Sod, 
Lest,  haply,  we  be  found 
(Ah,  dread  no  brave  hath  drowned!) 

Fighting  against  Great  God. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 

Heavy  siege  batteries  were  at  once  erected  by  the 
Union  forces  and  on  August  1  7, 1863,  a  terrific  bom 
bardment  began  against  Sumter  and  Wagner,  and 
continued  uninterruptedly.  Ten  days  later  Sumter 
had  been  reduced  to  a  shapeless  mass  of  ruins,  and 
Fort  Wagner  was  captured  soon  afterwards,  but 
th«  city  itself  still  stood  unshaken. 

TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER1 

[1863] 

STILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 
Sumter  lay; 

1  From  Poetical  Writings  of  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard;  copyright,  1880,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


A  light  was  overhead, 

As  from  burning  cities  shed, 

And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 

Far  away. 
Not  a  solitary  gun 
Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won 

Or  lost  the  day ! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drooping  rebel  flag. 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their 
play. 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn 

Fame  shall  tell; 

As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fear 'ess  band 

Shot  and  shell 

Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well 

(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame!). 
Till  the  walls  were  wrapped  in  flame, 
Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sum 
ter  fell! 


Now  —  oh,  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom ! 

Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls. 
(Hark!  the  ruined  rampart  falls!) 
There's  a  justice  that  appals 

In  its  doom ; 

For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  rebellion  had  its  birth 

Is  its  tomb! 

And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall  rise  in  grim   derision  and  make 
room! 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   FINAL   STRUGGLE 


A  survey  of  the  field  at  the  opening  of  the 
fourth  year  of  the  war  shows  how  steadily  the 
North  had  been  gaining  the  advantage  —  an  ad 
vantage  due  to  superior  numbers  and  greater 
resources  rather  than  to  brilliant  generalship. 
The  Union  forces  in  the  field  numbered  eight 
hundred  thousand,  while  the  Confederates  had 
scarcely  half  as  many,  and  were  compelled  to 
stand  on  the  defensive.  The  N-~>rth  hoped  to 
crush  them  by  one  mighty  effort. 


PUT  IT  THROUGH 

[1864] 

COME,  Freemen  of  the  land, 
Come,  meet  the  last  demand, — 
Here's  a  piece  of  work  in  hand; 
Put  it  through! 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Here's  a  log  across  the  way, 
We  have  stumbled  on  all  day; 
Here 's  a  ploughshare  in  the  clay,  — 
Put  it  through! 

Here's  a  country  that's  half  free, 
And  it  waits  for  you  and  me 
To  say  what  its  fate  shall  be; 

Put  it  through! 

While  one  traitor  thought  remains, 
While  one  spot  its  banner  stains, 
One  link  of  all  its  chains,  — 

Put  it  through! 

Hear  our  brothers  in  the  field, 

Steel  your  swords  as  theirs  are  steeled, 

Learn  to  wield  the  arms  they  wield,  — 

Put  it  through ! 

Lock  the  shop  and  lock  the  store, 
And  chalk  this  upon  the  door,  — 
'We've  enlisted  for  the  war!" 
Put  it  through! 

For  the  birthrights  yet  unsold, 
For  the  history  yet  untold. 
For  the  future  yet  unrolled, 

Put  it  through ! 

Lest  our  children  point  with  shame 
On  the  fathers'  dastard  fame, 
Who  gave  up  a  nation's  name. 

Put  it  through ! 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


Grant  was  made  lieutenant-general,  and  pre 
pared  to  advance  on  Richmond,  while  the  task  of 
taking  Atlanta  was  intrusted  to  Sherman.  Sher 
man  began  his  advance  without  delay,  and  was 
before  Atlanta  by  the  middle  of  July,  1864.  On 
the  20th  the  Confederates  made  a  desperate  sally, 
but  were  driven  back. 

LOGAN  AT  PEACH  TREE  CREEK 
A  VETERAN'S  STORY 

[July  20,  1864] 

You  know  that  day  at  Peach  Tree  Creek, 
When  the  Rebs  with  their  circling,  scorching 

wall 

Of  smoke-hid  cannon  and  sweep  of  flame 
Drove  in  our  flanks,  back !  back !  and  all 
Our  toil  seemed  lost  in  the  storm  of  shell  — 
That  desperate  day  McPherson  fell ! 

Our  regiment  stood  in  a  little  glade 

Set  round  with  half-grown  red  oak  trees  — 


An  awful  place  to  stand,  in  full  fair  sight, 
While  the  minie  bullets  hummed  like  bees, 
And  comrades  dropped  on  either  side  — 
That  fearful  day  McPherson  died ! 

The  roar  of  the  battle,  steady,  stern, 

Rung  in  our  ears.   Upon  our  eyes 

The   belching  cannon  smoke,  the  half-hid 

swing 

Of  deploying  troops,  the  groans,  the  cries, 
The  hoarse  commands,  the  sickening  smell  — 
That  blood-red  day  McPherson  fell ! 

But  we  stood  there !  —  when  out  from  the 

trees, 

Out  of  the  smoke  and  dismay  to  the  right 
Burst  a  rider  —  His  head  was  bare,  his  eye 
Had  a  blaze  like  a  lion  fain  for  fight; 
His  long  hair,  black  as  the  deepest  night, 
Streamed  out  on  the  wind.  And  the  might 
Of  his  plunging  horse  was  a  tale  to  tell, 
And  his  voice  rang  high  like  a  bugle's  swell ; 
"Men,  the  enemy  hem  us  on  every  side; 
We'll  whip  'em  yet!  Close  up  that  breach  — 
Remember  your  flag  —  don't  give  an  inch ! 
The  right   flank 's   gaining    and    soon  will 

reach  — 

Forward  boys,  and  give  'em  hell!"  — 
Said  Logan  after  McPherson  fell. 

We  laughed  and  cheered  and  the  red  ground 

shook, 

As  the  general  plunged  along  the  line 
Through  the  deadliest  rain  of  screaming  shells ; 
For  the  sound  of  his  voice  refreshed  us  all, 
And  we  filled  the  gap  like  a  roaring  tide, 
And  saved  the  day  McPherson  died ! 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago, 

And  j>art  of  a  horrible  dream  now  past. 

For  Logan,  the  lion,  the  drums  throb  low 

And  the  flag  swings  low  on  the  mast; 

He  has  followed  his  mighty  chieftain  through 

The  mist-hung  stream,  where  gray  and  blue 

One  color  stand, 

And  North  to  South  extends  the  hand. 

It's  right  that  deeds  of  war  and  blood 

Should  be  forgot,  but,  spite  of  all, 

I  think  of  Logan,  now,  as  he  rode 

That  day  across  the  field ;  I  hear  the  call 

Of  his  trumpet  voice  —  see  the  battle  shine 

In  his  stern,  black  eyes,  and  down  the  line 

Of  cheering  men  I  see  him  ride, 

As  on  the  day  McPherson  died. 

1 1  Aii  LIN  GARLAND. 


WITH  CORSE  AT  ALLATOONA 


On  July  22,  1864,  Sherman  ordered  a  general 
assault,  which  lasted  two  days,  with  heavy  losses 
on  both  sides.  General  McPherson  was  killed  by  a 
Confederate  sharpshooter  about  noon  of  the  first 
day. 

A  DIRGE  FOR  McPHERSON 

KILLED   IN   FRONT  OF  ATLANTA 
[July  22,  1864] 

ARMS  reversed  and  banners  craped  — 

Muffled  drums; 
Snowy  horses  sable^lraped  — 
McPherson  comes. 

But,  tell  us,  shall  we  know  him  more, 
Lost-Mountain  and  lone  Kenesaw  ¥ 

Brave  the  sword  upon  the  pall  — 

A  gleam  in  gloom; 
So  a  bright  name  lighteth  all 

McPherson 's  doom. 

Bear  him  through  the  chapel-door  — 

Let  priest  in  stole 
Pace  before  the  warrior 

Who  led.    Bell  — toll! 

Lay  him  down  within  the  nave. 

The  Lesson  read  — 
Man  is  noble,  man  is  brave, 

But  man 's  —  a  weed. 

Take  him  up  again  and  wend 

Graveward,  nor  weep: 
There's  a  trumpet  that  shall  rend 

This  Soldier's  sleep. 

Pass  the  ropes  the  coffin  round, 

And  let  descend; 
Prayer  and  volley  —  let  it  sound 
McPherson's  end. 

True  fame  is  his,  for  life  is  o'er  — 
Sarpedon  of  the  mighty  war. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


Hostilities  continued  about  Atlanta  for  nearly 
a  month,  and  finally,  on  September  2,  1864.  the 
Confederates  evacuated  the  city.  A  few  days  later, 
they  suddenly  attacked  Allatoona,  where  General 
Corse  was  stationed  with  a  small  garrison.  Sher 
man  heard  the  thunder  of  the  guns  from  the  top  of 
Kenesaw  Mountain,  and  signalled  Corse  the  fa 
mous  message,  "  Hold  out ;  relief  is  coming! "  Corse 
did  hold  out  and  the  Confederates  finally  with* 
drew. 


WITH  CORSE  AT  ALLATOONA 

[October  5,  1 864] 

IT  was  less  than  two  thousand  we  numbered, 

In  the  fort  sitting  up  on  the  hill ; 
That  night  not  a  soldier  that  slumbered ; 

We  watched  by  the  starlight  until 
Daybreak  showed  us  all  of  their  forces; 

About  us  their  gray  columns  ran, 
To  left  and  to  right  they  were  round  us, 

Five  thousand  if  there  was  a  man. 

"Surrender  your  fort,"  bawled  the  rebel; 

"Five  minutes  I  give,  or  you're  dead." 
"Not  a  man,"  answered  Corse,  in  his  treble, 

"  Perhaps  you  can  take  us  instead ! " 
Then  pealed  forth  their  cannon  infernal; 

We  fought  them  outside  of  the  pass, 
Two  hours,  the  time  seemed  eternal; 

The  dead  lay  in  lines  on  the  grass. 

But  who  cared  for  dead  or  for  dying  ? 

The  fort  we  were  there  to  defend, 
And  across  from  yon  far  mountain  flying. 

Came  a  message,  "Hold  on  to  the  end; 
Hold  on  to  the  fort."   It  was  Sherman, 

Who  signalled  from  Kenesaw's  height, 
Far  over  the  heads  of  our  foemen, 

"  Hold  on  —  I  am  coming  to-night." 

Quick  fluttered  our  flag  to  the  signal, 

We  answered  him  back  with  a  will, 
And  fired  on  the  gray-coated  rebels 

That  charged  up  the  slope  of  the  hill. 
"Load  double,"  cried  Corse,  "every  cannon; 

Who  cares  for  their  ten  to  our  one?" 
We  kx>ked  at  the  swift-coming  rebels, 

And  answered  their  yell  with  a  gun. 

With  the  grape  from  our  fort  in  their  faces, 

They  rush  to  the  ramparts,  but  stop; 
Ah !  few  of  the  gray-columned  army 

That  day  left  alive  at  the  top. 
On  the  parapets,  too,  lie  our  wounded, 

Each  porthole  a  grave  for  the  dead ; 
No  room  for  our  cannon,  the  corpses 

Fill  up  the  embrasures  instead. 

Again  through  the  cannon's  red  weather 
They  charge  up  the  hill  and  the  pass, 

Their  dead  and  our  dead  lie  together 
Out  there  on  the  slope  in  the  grass. 

A  crash  from  our  rifles  —  they  falter; 
A  gleam  from  our  steel  —  it  is  by. 


512 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'•Recall  and  retreat,"  sound  their  bugles; 
We  cheer  from  the  fort  as  they  fly. 

Once  more  and  the  signal  is  flying  — 

"How  many  the  wounded  and  dead?" 
"Six  hundred,"  says  Corse,  "with  the  dying," 

The  blood  streaming  down  from  his  head. 
"  But  what  of  that  ?  Look !  the  old  banner 

Shines  out  there  as  peaceful  and  still 
As  if  there  had  not  been  a  battle 

This  morning  up  there  on  the  hill." 

SAMUEL  H.  M.  BYERS. 


ALLATOONA 

[October  5,  1864] 

WINDS  that  sweep  the  southern  mountains, 

And  the  leafy  river  shore, 
Bear  ye  now  a  prouder  burden 
Than  ye  ever  learned  before! 
And  the  heart  blood  fills 
The  heart,  till  it  thrills 
At  the  story 

Of  the  terror  and  the  glory 
Of  this  battle  of  the  Allatoona  hills! 

Echo  it  from  the  purple  mountain 

To  the  gray  resounding  shore ! 
'T  is  as  sad  and  proud  a  burden 
As  ye  ever  learned  before. 
How  they  fell  like  grass 
When  the  mowers  pass! 
And  the  dying. 
When  the  foe  were  flying. 
Swelled  the  cheering  of  the  heroes  of  the 
pass. 

Sweep  it  o'er  the  hills  of  Georgia, 
To  the  mountains  of  the  north ! 
Teach  the  coward  and  the  doubter 
What  the  blood  of  man  is  worth ! 
Toss  the  flags  as  ye  pass! 
Let  their  stained  and  tattered  mass 
Tell  the  story 

Of  the  terror  and  the  glory 
Of  the  battle  of  the  Allatoona  Pass! 


Sherman  now  prepared  for  a  manoeuvre  which 
was  destined  to  be  the  most  famous  of  the  war. 
He  determined  to  destroy  Atlanta,  and,  marching 
through  the  heart  of  Georgia,  to  capture  one  or 
more  of  the  important  seaport  towns.  On  No 
vember  16,  1864,  the  famous  "march  to  the  sea" 
began. 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA 

OUR  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
As  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning, 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe; 
When  a  rider  came  out  of  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted :  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready ! 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea." 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  reechoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men ; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And  that   blessings   from  Northland   would 
greet  us 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Then  forward,  boys!  forward  to  battle! 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
We  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca, 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free, 
And  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 

Still  onward  we  pressed  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor  flag  falls. 
We  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree, 
Yet  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 

That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers. 
When  Sherman  said:  "Boys,  you  are  weary 

But  to-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours ! " 
Then  sang  we  the  song  of  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 
SAMUEL  H.  M.  BYERS. 


Through  the  heart  of  Georgia  the  army  moved, 
leaving  behind  a  path  of  ruin  forty  miles  in  width. 
Some  of  this  destruction  was  no  doubt  necessary, 
but  much  of  it  seems  to  have  been  wanton  and 
without  reason. 


MARCHING   THROUGH   GEORGIA 


5*3 


THE  SONG  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY 

A  PILLAR  of  fire  by  night, 

A  pillar  of  smoke  by  day, 
Some    hours    of   march  —  then    a    halt    to 

fight, 

And  so  we  hold  our  way; 
Some    hours    of    march  —  then    a    halt    to 

fight, 
As  on  we  hold  our  way. 

Over  mountain  and  plain  and  stream. 

To  some  bright  Atlantic  bay. 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 

We  hold  our  festal  way; 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 

We  hold  our  check  less  way! 

There  is  terror  wherever  we  come, 
There  is  terror  and  wild  dismay 
When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the 

drum 

Announce  us  on  our  way; 
When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the 

drum 
Beating  time  to  our  onward  way. 

Never  un limber  a  gun 

For  those  villainous  lines  in  gray; 
Draw  sabres !  and  at  'em  upon  the  run ! 

'T  is  thus  we  clear  our  way ; 
Draw  sabres,  and  soon  you  will  see  them 

run, 
As  we  hold  our  conquering  way. 

The  loyal,  who  long  have  been  dumb, 
Are  loud  in  their  cheers  to-day; 

And  the  old  men  out  on  their  crutches  come, 
To  see  us  hold  our  way; 

And  the  old  men  out  on  their  crutches  come, 
To  bless  us  on  our  way. 

Around  us  in  rear  and  flanks, 

Their  futile  squadrons  play, 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  steady  ranks, 

We  hold  our  checkless  way; 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  serried  ranks, 

Our  banner  clears  the  way. 

Hear  the  spattering  fire  that  starts 

From  the  woods  and  the  copses  gray, 
There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  quicken  our 

hearts, 
As  we  frolic  along  the  way! 


There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  warm  our 

hearts, 
As  we  rattle  along  the  way. 

Upon  different  roads,  abreast, 
The  heads  of  our  columns  gay. 

With  fluttering  flags,  all  forward  pressed, 
Hold  on  their  conquering  way; 

With  fluttering  flags  to  victory  pressed, 
We  hold  our  glorious  way. 

Ah,  traitors!  who  bragged  so  bold 

In  the  sad  war's  early  day. 
Did  nothing  predict  you  should  ever  be 
hold 

The  Old  Flag  come  this  way  ? 
Did  nothing  predict  you  should  yet  be 
hold 
Our  banner  come  back  this  way  ? 

By  heaven !  't  is  a  gala  march, 

'T  is  a  picnic  or  a  play; 
Of  all  our  long  war  't  is  the  crowning  arch, 

Hip,  hip!  for  Sherman's  way! 
Of  all  our  long  war  this  crowns  the  arch  — 
For  Sherman  and  Grant,  hurrah! 

CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE. 


MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA 

BRING  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we'll  sing 

another  song  — 
Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world 

along  — 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it  fifty  thousand 

strong. 

While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Chorus  —  "Hurrah!  Hurrah!  we  bring  the 

jubilee! 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  the  flag  that 

makes  you  free!" 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  At 
lanta  to  the  sea, 
While  we  were  marching  through 
Georgia. 

How  the  darkeys  shouted  when  they  heard  the 
joyful  sound ! 

How  the  turkeys  gobbled  which  our  commis 
sary  found! 

How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the 

ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with 
joyful  tears, 

When  they  saw  the  honored  flag  they  had  not 
seen  for  years; 

Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  break 
ing  forth  in  cheers, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

"Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never 
reach  the  coast!" 

So  the  saucy  rebels  said  —  and  't  was  a  hand 
some  boast. 

Had  they  not  forgot,  alas !  to  reckon  on  a  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for  Freedom  and 

her  train, 
Sixty  miles  in  latitude  —  three  hundred  to 

the  main; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in 

vain, 

While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
HENRY  CLAY  WORK. 


ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLORS 

WHO  are  you  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly 

human, 
With  your  woolly-white  and  turban'd  head, 

and  bare  bony  feet? 
Why  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the 

colors  greet? 

('T  is  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sands 

and  pines, 
Forth   from   thy  hovel  door  thou   Ethiopia 

com'st  to  me, 
As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  toward 

the  sea.) 

Me  master  years  a   hundred  since  from  my 

parents  sunder'd, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage 

beast  is  caught, 
Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver 

brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the 

day, 
Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags,  and 

rolls  her  darkling  eye, 
And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons 

moving  by. 


What  is  it  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly 
human  ? 

Why  wag  your  head  with  turban  bound,  yel 
low,  red  and  green  ? 

Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvellous  you 
see  or  have  seen  ? 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


The  invasion  brought  panic  to  the  South,  and 
Eeauregard  hastened  to  oppose  it.  But  Sherman 
pressed  on  irresistibly,  beating  down  all  opposition, 
reached  Savannah,  and  on  December  22,  1864, 
marched  into  the  city,  which  had  been  abandoned 
by  the  Confederates.  On  Christmas  day,  he  tele 
graphed  President  Lincoln,  "I  beg  to  present  to 
you,  as  a  Christmas  gift,  the  city  of  Savannah." 


SHERMAN  'S  IN  SAVANNAH 

[December  22,  1864] 

LIKE  the  tribes  of  Israel, 

Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  land, 
Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 

Marching  on  Savannah ! 

As  the  moving  pillar  shone, 
Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night, 
Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 
Down  on  doomed  Savannah! 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high ! 

Shout  the  loud  Hosanna! 
Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah ! 

Soon  shall  Richmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

SAVANNAH 

[December  23,  1 864] 

THOU  hast  not  drooped  thy  stately  head, 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed! 


CHARLESTON 


Not  like  a  Iamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Thou  comest  to  thy  battle  bed, 
Savannah!  O  Savannah! 

Thine  arm  of  flesh  is  girded  strong; 
The  blue  veins  swell  beneath  thy  wrong; 
To  thee  the  triple  cords  belong 
Of  woe  and  death  and  shameless  wrong, 
And  spirit  vaunted  long,  too  long! 
Savannah!  O  Savannah! 

No  blood -stains  spot  thy  forehead  fair; 
Only  the  martyrs'  blood  is  there; 
It  gleams  upon  thy  bosom  bare, 
It  moves  thy  deep,  deep  soul  to  prayer, 
And  tunes  a  dirge  for  thy  sad  ear, 
Savannah!   O  Savannah! 

Thy  clean  white  hand  is  opened  wide 
For  weal  or  woe,  thou  Freedom  Bride; 
The  sword-sheath  sparkles  at  thy  side, 
Thy  plighted  troth,  whate'er  betide, 
Thou  hast  but  Freedom  for  thy  guide, 
Savannah!   O  Savannah! 

What  though  the  heavy  storm-cloud  lowers, 
Still  at  thy  feet  the  old  oak  towers; 
Still  fragrant  are  thy  jessamine  bowers, 
And  things  of  beauty,  love,  and  flowers 
Are  smiling  o'er  this  land  of  ours, 
My  sunny  home,  Savannah ! 

There  is  no  film  before  thy  sight,  — 
Thou  seest  woe  and  death  and  night, 
And  blood  upon  thy  banner  bright; 
But  in  thy  full  wrath's  kindled  might 
What  carest  thou  for  woe  or  night? 
My  rebel  home,  Savannah! 

Come  —  for  the  crown  is  on  thy  head ! 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed; 
Not  like  a  Iamb  to  slaughter  led. 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Oh !  come  unto  thy  battle  bed, 
Savannah!   O  Savannah! 

ALETHEA  S.  BURROUGHS. 


Sherman  paused  at  Savannah  to  fortify  the 
place  and  get  his  army  into  shape,  after  its  march 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles;  then,  on  Jan 
uary  15,  1865,  he  started  northward  into  South 
Carolina. 


CAROLINA 

[January,  1865J 

THE  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm; 
Oh !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle-hymn, 

Carolina ! 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields,  and  fens,  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina! 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 

Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout!  Let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 

Every  man  in  the  state  was  called  to  arms,  but 
the  Union  forces  met  with  only  a  weak  and  inef 
fective  resistance.  On  February  16,  1865,  Colum 
bia  was  occupied;  and  catching  fire  accidentally 
next  day,  was  totally  destroyed.  The  fall  of  Colum 
bia  left  Charleston  exposed  and  the  Confederate 
troops  hastened  to  get  away  while  they  could. 

CHARLESTON 

[February,  1 865] 

CALMLY  beside  her  tropic  strand, 
An  empress,  brave  and  loyal, 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


1  see  the  watchful  city  stand, 

With  aspect  sternly  royal; 
She  knows  her  mortal  foe  draws  near, 

Armored  by  subtlest  science, 
Yet  deep,  majestical,  and  clear, 

Rings  out  her  grand  defiance. 
Oh,  glorious  is  thy  noble  face, 

Lit  up  by  proud  emotion, 
And  unsurpassed  thy  stately  grace, 

Our  warrior  Queen  of  Ocean! 

First  from  thy  lips  the  summons  came, 

Which  roused  our  South  to  action, 
And,  with  the  quenchless  force  of  flame 

Consumed  the  demon,  Faction; 
First,  like  a  rush  of  sovereign  wind, 

That  rends  dull  waves  asunder, 
Thy  prescient  warning  struck  the  blind, 

And  woke  the  deaf  with  thunder; 
They  saw,  with  swiftly  kindling  eyes. 

The  shameful  doom  before  them, 
And  heard,  borne  wild  from  northern  skies, 

The  death-gale  hurtling  o'er  them : 

Wilt  thou,  whose  virgin  banner  rose, 

A  morning  star  of  splendor. 
Quail  when  the  war-tornado  blows, 

And  crouch  in  base  surrender? 
Wilt  thou,  upon  whose  loving  breast 

Our  noblest  chiefs  are  sleeping. 
Yield  thy  dead  patriots'  place  of  rest 

To  scornful  alien  keeping? 
No!  while  a  life-pulse  throbs  for  fame, 

Thy  sons  will  gather  round  thee, 
Welcome  the  shot,  the  steel,  the  flame, 

If  honor's  hand  hath  crowned  thee. 

Then  fold  about  thy  beauteous  form 

The  imperial  robe  thou  wearest, 
And  front  with  regal  port  the  storm 

Thy  foe  would  dream  thou  fearest; 
If  strength,  and  will,  and  courage  fail 

To  cope  with  ruthless  numbers. 
And  thou  must  bend,  despairing,  pale, 

Where  thy  last  hero  slumbers, 
Lift  the  red  torch,  and  light  the  fire 

Amid  those  corpses  gory, 
And  on  thy  self-made  funeral  pyre, 

Pass  from  the  world  to  glory. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

The  cotton  in  the  town  was  burned,  many 
houses  caught  fire,  and  a  magazine  exploded, 
killing  two  hundred  people.  The  city  was  virtually 
a  ruin  when  the  last  of  the  Confederate  troops  — 
"poor  old  Dixie's  bottom  dollar"  —  left  the  city. 


'TALK  of  pluck!"  pursued  the  Sailor, 
Set  at  euchre  on  his  elbow, 
"  I  was  on  the  wharf  at  Charleston, 
Just  ashore  from  oft'  the  runner. 

'  It  was  gray  and  dirty  weather. 
And  I  heard  a  drum  go  rolling, 
Rub-a-dubbing  in  the  distance, 
Awful  dour-like  and  defiant. 

'In  and  out  among  the  cotton. 

Mud,  and  chains,  and  stores,  and  an 
chors, 

Tramped  a  squad  of  battered  scare 
crows  — 

Poor  old  Dixie's  bottom  dollar! 

'  Some  had  shoes,  but  all  had  rifles, 

Them  that  was  n't  bald  was  beardless, 
And  the  drum  was  rolling  '  Dixie,' 
And  they  stepped  to  it  like  men,  sir! 

'Rags  and  tatters,  belts  and  bayonets, 
On  they  swung,  the  drum  a-rolling, 
Mum  and  sour.  It  looked  like  fighting, 
And  they  meant  it  too,  by  thunder!" 
WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


The  excitement  of  the  people  mounted  to 
hysteria;  there  were  those  who  advised  that  the 
city  be  destroyed  and  that  its  inhabitants  die 
fighting  on  its  ashes.  But  calmer  counsel  prevailed 
and  Charleston,  on  February  18,  1865,  was  sur 
rendered  without  resistance. 


THE  FOE  AT  THE  GATES 

[CHARLESTON,  1865) 

RING  round  her!    children   of  her  glorious 

skies. 
Whom  she  hath  nursed  to  stature  proud  and 

great; 
Catch  one  last  glance   from   her  imploring 

eyes. 

Then  close  your  ranks  and  face  the  threaten 
ing  fate. 

Ring  round  her!  with  a  wall  of  horrent  steel 
Confront  the  foe,  nor  mercy  ask  nor  give; 

And  in  her  hour  of  anguish  let  her  feel 
That  ye  can  die  whom  she  has  taught  to 
live. 


ULRIC   DAHLGREN 


Ring;  round  her !  swear,  by  every  lifted  blade, 
To  shield  from  wrong  the  mother  who  gave 
you  birth; 

That  never  violent  hand  on  her  be  laid, 
Nor  base  foot  desecrate  her  hallowed  hearth. 

Curst  be  the  dastard  who  shall  halt  or  doubt ! 
And  doubly  damned  who  casts  one  look 

behind ! 
Ye  who  are  men!  with  unsheathed  sword,  and 

shout, 
Up  with  her  banner!  give  it  to  the  wind ! 

Peal  your  wild  slogan,  echoing  far  and  wide, 
Till  every  ringing  avenue  repeat 

The  gathering  cry,  and  Ashley's  angry  tide 
Calls  to  the  sea-waves  beating  round  her 
feet. 

Sons,  to  the  rescue !  spurred  and  belted,  come ! 
Kneeling,  with  clasp'd  hands,  she  invokes 

you  now 
By  the  sweet  memories  of  your  childhood's 

home. 
By  every  manly  hope  and  filial  vow, 

To  save  her  proud  soul  from  that  loathed 

thrall 

Which  yet  her  spirit  cannot  brook  to  name; 
Or,  if  her  fate  be  near,  and  she  must  fall, 
Spare   her  —  sh«   sues  —  the   agony   and 
shame. 

From  all  her  fanes  let  solemn  bells  be  tolled; 

Heap  with  kind  hands  her  costly  funeral 

pyre, 
And  thus,  with  paean  sung  and  anthem  rolled, 

Give  her  unspotted  to  the  God  of  Fire. 

Gather  around  her  sacred  ashes  then, 

Sprinkle  the  cherished  dust  with  crimson 

rain, 

Die!  as  becomes  a  race  of  free-born  men, 
Who  will  not  crouch  to  wear  the  bondman's 
chain. 

So,  dying,  ye  shall  win  a  high  renown, 

If  not  in  life,  at  least  by  death,  set  free; 
And  send   her   fame  through    endless    ages 

down  — 
The  last  grand  holocaust  of  Liberty. 

JOHN  DICKSON  BRUNS. 

While  Sherman  was  accomplishing  his  task  in 
this  triumphant  manner,  Grant  was  hammering 


away  at  Richmond.  Late  in  February,  1864,  a 
strong  force  under  Kilpatrick  was  detached  to 
raid  around  Richmond  and  if  possible  release  the 
Union  prisoners  at  Belle  Isle  and  in  Libby  prison. 
They  reached  the  outer  fortifications,  but  were 
repulsed,  Major  Ulric  Dahlgren  being  among  the 
killed. 

ULRIC  DAHLGREN 

[March  2,  1864] 

A  FLASH  of  light  across  the  night, 

An  eager  face,  an  eye  afire! 
O  lad  so  true,  you  yet  may  rue 

The  courage  of  your  deep  desire ! 

"Nay,  tempt  me  not;  the  way  is  plain  — 
'Tis  but  the  coward  checks  his  rein; 

For  there  they  lie. 

And  there  they  cry, 
For  whose  dear  sake  't  were  joy  to  die!" 

He  bends  unto  his  saddlebow. 

The  steeds  they  follow  two  and  two; 

Their  flanks  are  wet  with  foam  and  sweat, 
Their  riders'  locks  are  damp  with  dew. 

"O  comrades,  haste!  the  way  is  long, 
The  dirge  it  drowns  the  battle-song; 

The  hunger  preys, 

The  famine  slays. 
An  awful  horror  veils  our  ways!" 

Beneath  the  pall  of  prison  wall 

The  rush  of  hoofs  they  seem  to  hear; 

From  loathsome  guise  they  lift  their  eyes, 
And  beat  their  bars  and  bend  their  ear. 

"Ah,   God    be    thanked!    our    friends    are 

nigh; 
He  wills  it  not  that  thus  we  die; 

O  fiends  accurst 

Of  Want  and  Thirst, 
Our  comrades  gather,  —  do  your  worst ! " 

A  sharp  affright  runs  through  the  night, 
An  ambush  stirred,  a  column  reined; 

The  hurrying  steed  has  checked  his  speed, 
His  smoking  flanks  are  crimson  stained. 

O  noble  son  of  noble  sire, 
Thine  ears  are  deaf  to  our  desire! 

O  knightly  grace 

Of  valiant  race. 
The  grave  is  honor's  trysting-place! 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


O  life  so  pure!   O  faith  so  sure! 
O  heart  so  brave,  and  true,  and  strong! 
With  tips  of  flame  is  writ  your  name, 
In  annaled  deed  and  storied  song! 

It  flares  across  the  solemn  night, 
It  glitters  in  the  radiant  light; 

A  jewel  set, 

Unnumbered  yet, 
In  our  Republic's  coronet! 

KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD. 

On  May  1 , 1864,  a  general  advance  was  ordered , 
and  two  days  later  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  one 
hundred  and  thirty  thousand  strong,  advanced 
into  the  Wilderness,  south  of  the  Rapidan.  There, 
on  May  5,  Lee  hurled  his  forces  upon  them.  On 
the  second  day.  Lee  seized  the  colors  of  a  Texas 
regiment  and  started  to  lead  an  assault  in  person. 
The  men  remonstrated  and  promised  to  carry  the 
position  if  Lee  would  retire.  The  troops  advanced 
shouting,  "  Lee  to  the  rearl  "  and  kept  their  word. 

LEE  TO  THE  REAR 

[May  6,  1864] 

DAWN  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May 
Broke  through  the  Wilderness  cool  and  gray ; 
While  perched  in  the  tallest  tree-tops,  the  birds 
Were  carolling  Mendelssohn's  "  Songs  without 
Words." 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note; 
And  Nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little,  as  daylight  increased. 
And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  East  — 
Little  by  little  did  morning  reveal 
Two  long  glittering  lines  of  steel; 

Where  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam. 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
And  the  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden,  ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun  — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  Rebel  lines, 
Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 
Before  the  Rebels  their  ranks  can  form. 
The  Yankees  have  carried  the  place  by  storm. 


Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  salient  wave, 
Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 
And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 
The  ground  they  have  drenched  with  their 
blood,  to  regain. 

Yet  louder  the  thunder  of  battle  roared  — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  on  the  columns  poured; 
Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  Despair, 
Furies  twain,  through  the  murky  air. 

Not  far  off,  in  the  saddle  there  sat 
A  gray-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat; 
Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he, 
Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 

Quick  and  watchful  he  kept  his  eye 
On  the  bold  Rebel  brigades  close  by,  — 
Reserves  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at 

ease, 
While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the 

trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,  deep,  bull-dog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away. 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas!  fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  graybeard  rode  to  the  space 
Where  Death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to 

face. 

And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat  — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that! 

"Follow  me!   Steady!   We'll  save  the  day!" 
This  was  what  he  seemed  to  say; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply: 

"We'll  go  forward,  but  you  must  go  back"  — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous 

track: 

"Go  to  the  rear,  and  we'll  send  them  to  hell!" 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their 

yell. 

Turning  his  bridle,  Robert  Lee 
Rode  to  the  rear.    Like  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bursting  the  dikes  in  their  overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven., 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,  wood  and  wold. 


OBSEQUIES   OF   STUART 


Sunset  out  of  a  crimson  sky 
Streamed  o'er  a  field  of  ruddier  dye. 
And  the  brook  ran  on  with  a  purple  stain, 
From   the  blood  of   ten    thousand  foemen 
slain. 

Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day  and  year  — 
Again  o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook  runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green  is  drest 
Where  the  dead  of  a  terrible  conflict  rest. 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  Rebel  drum. 

The  sabres  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are 

dumb; 

And  Fate,  with  his  pitiless  hand,  has  furled 
The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the 

world ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides; 
And  down  into  history  grandly  rides, 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  in  battle  he  sat. 
The  gray-bearded  man  in  the  black  slouched 
hat. 

JOHN  RANDOLPH  THOMPSON. 


For  two  weeks  a  frightful  struggle  raged.  The 
Union  losses  were  fearful,  but  on  May  11,  1864, 
Grant  wired  to  the  Secretary  of  War,  "  I  propose 
to  fight  it  out  on  this  line,  if  it  takes  all  summer." 

CAN'T 

How  history  repeats  itself 

You'll  say  when  you  remember  Grant, 
Who,  in  his  boyhood  days,  once  sought 

Throughout  the  lexicon  for  "can't." 

He  could  not  find  the  word  that  day. 

The  earnest  boy  whose  name  was  Grant; 

He  never  found  it  through  long  years, 
With  all  their  power  to  disenchant. 

No  hostile  host  could  give  him  pause; 

Rivers  and  mountains  could  not  daunt; 
He  never  found  that  hindering  word  — 

The  steadfast  man  whose  name  was  Grant. 
HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


Grant  used  his  cavalry  most  effectively,  and  he 
had  a  dashing  leader  in  "  Phil  "  Sheridan.  Early  in 
May.  1864.  Sheridan  and  a  strong  force  was  sent 
on  a  raid  around  the  Confederate  lines,  and  on  the 
12th  encountered  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart  in  force 
at  Yellow  Tavern.  A  sharp  engagement  followed, 
:.i  which  Stuart  was  killed. 


OBSEQUIES  OF  STUART 

[May  12,  1864J 

WE  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noontide  air 
Shook  with  the  cannonade's  incessant  peal 
ing. 

The  funeral  pageant  fitly  to  prepare  — 
A  nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland 

wide 
That  skirts  our  southward  border  in  its 

beauty, 
Marked  where  our  heroes  stood  and  fought 

and  died 
For  love  and  faith  and  duty. 

And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went 

on. 
We    might    not   find   expression    for   our 

sorrow ; 

We  could  but  lay  our  dear  dumb  warrior  down, 
And  gird  us  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  agone,  when  came  a  lull 
With  victory  in  the  conflict's  stormy  closes. 

When  the  glad  Spring,  all  flushed  and  beauti 
ful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses, 

With  dirge  and  bell  and  minute-gun,  we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites  —  an  inexpressive  token 

Of  a  great  people's  pain  —  to  Jackson's  shade, 
In  agony  unspoken. 

No  wailing  trumpet,  and  no  tolling  bell. 
No  cannon,  save  the  battle's  boom  receding. 

When  Stuart  to  the  grave  we  bore,  might  tell, 
With  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 

The  crisis  suited  not  with  pomp,  and  she 
Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecra 
tion 

Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  should  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came,  sweet  flowers  to  twine 
Above  his  form  so  still  and  cold  and  painless. 

Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  records  shine, 
Whose  life  and  sword  were  stainless. 

They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 
Into   the   fight,    festooned   from   summer 
bowers ; 


520 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


How  like  a  fountain's  spray  his  sabre's  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest 

All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal: 

The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre,  on  his  breast, 
That  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 

No  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain: 
But  there  will  still  come  a  time  when  Free 
dom's  martyrs 

A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit  land  which  lies 
Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er 
us. 

The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling  peaceful  chorus. 

And  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  ac 
claim 

Of  millions  undisturbed   by  war's   afflic 
tions, 

Crowning  each  martyr's  never-dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

In  some  fair  future  garden  of  delights, 
Where  flowers  shall  bloom  and  song-birds 
sweetly  warble, 

Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights 
In  living  bronze  and  marble. 

And  none  of  all  that  bright  heroic  throng 
Shall  wear  to  far-off  time  a  semblance 

grander. 
Shall  still  be.  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of 

song, 
Than  this  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid, 
That  after  death  he  rode,  erect,  sedately, 

Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 
In  presence  yet  more  stately; 

And  thus  our  Stuart,  at  this  moment,  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story 

Into  the  region  of  romance  and  dreams, 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory; 

And  sometimes,  when  the  silver  bugles  blow. 
That  ghostly  form,  in  battle  reappearing. 

Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 
In  victory  careering! 

JOHN  RANDOLPH  THOMPSON. 


Grant  was  overwhelming  the  Confederates  by 
weight  of  numbers,  and  pushed  slowly  on.  To 
divert  him,  Lee  threw  a  portion  of  his  army  into 
the  Shenandoah  valley,  and  started  again  to  invade 
Maryland  and  Pennsylvania.  A  body  of  Union 
troops  contested  their  passage  at  Snicker's  Ferry 
and  a  sharp  skirmish  followed. 

A   CHRISTOPHER   OF   THE 
SHENANDOAH 

ISLAND  FORD,  SNICKER'S  GAP,  JULY  18,  1864 
TOLD    BY    THE   ORDERLY 

MUTE  he  sat  in  the  saddle,  —  mute  'midst 

our  full  acclaim, 
As  three  times  over  we  gave  to  the  mountain 

echo  his  name. 
Then,  "  But  I  could  n't  do  less !  "  in  a  murmur 

remonstrant  came. 

This  was  the  deed  his  spirit  set  and  his  hand 

would  not  shun. 
When  the  vale  of  the  Shenandoah  had  lost  the 

glow  of  the  sun. 
And  the  evening  cloud  and  the  battle  smoke 

were  blending  in  one. 

Retreating  and  ever  retreating,  the  bank  of 

the  river  we  gained, 
Hope  of  the  field  was  none,  and  choice  but 

of  flight  remained. 
When  there  at  the  brink  of  the  ford  his  horse 

he  suddenly  reined. 

For  his  vigilant  eye  had  marked  where,  close 

by  the  oozy  marge. 
Half-parted  its  moorings,  there  lay  a  battered 

and  oarless  barge. 
"Quick!  gather  the  wounded  in!"  and  the 

flying  stayed  at  his  charge. 

They  gathered  the  wounded  in  whence  they 

fell  by  the  river-bank. 
Lapped  on  the  gleaming  sand,  or  aswoon,  'mid 

the  rushes  dank; 
And  they  crowded  the  barge  till  its  sides  low 

down  in  the  water  sank. 

The  river  was  wide,  was  deep,  and  heady  the 

current  flowed, 
A  burdened  and  oarless  craft!  —  straight  into 

the  stream  he  rode 
By  the  side  of  the  barge,  and  drew  it  along 

with  its  moaning  load. 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE 


521 


A  moaning  and  ghastly  load  —  the  wounded 
—  the  dying  —  the  dead! 

For  ever  upon  their  traces  followed  the  whist 
ling  lead, 

Our  bravest  the  mark,  yet  unscathed  and  un 
daunted,  he  pushed  ahead. 

Alone?    Save  for  one  that  from  love  of  his 

leader  or  soldierly  pride 
(Hearing  his  call  for  aid,  and  seeing  that  none 

replied), 
Plunged  and  swam  by  the  crazy  craft  on  the 

other  side. 

But  Heaven !  what  weary  toil !  for  the  river  is 
wide,  is  deep; 

The  current  is  swift,  and  the  bank  on  the  fur 
ther  side  is  steep. 

T  is  reached  at  last,  and  a  hundred  of  ours 
to  the  rescue  leap. 

Oh,  they  cheered  as  he  rose  from  the  stream 
and  the  water-drops  flowed  away! 

"But  I  could  n't  do  less!"  in  the  silence  that 
followed  we  heard  him  say; 

Then  the  wounded  cheered,  and  the  swoon 
ing  awoke  in  the  barge  where  they 
lay. 

And  I  ?  —  Ah,  well,  I  swam  by  the  barge  on 

the  other  side; 
But   an   orderly   goes   wherever   his    leader 

chooses  to  ride. 
Come  life  or  come  death  I  could  n't  do  less 

than  follow  his  guide. 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS. 

The  Confederate  cavalry  pushed  on  toward  the 
Susquehanna,  sacked  Chambersburg,  and  filled  all 
western  Pennsylvania  with  panic.  Grant  at  once 
got  together  a  large  force  to  repel  this  invasion, 
and  placed  it  under  command  of  General  Sheridan. 
On  September  19, 1864,  the  Confederates  attacked 
his  troops  at  Winchester,  but  Sheridan  beat  them 
off  and  punished  them  so  severely  that  he  supposed 
they  had  enough.  With  that  impression,  he  went 
to  Washington  on  official  business,  leaving  his  men 
strongly  posted  on  Cedar  Creek.  There,  on  the 
morning  of  October  19,  the  Confederates  attacked 
them,  front,  Sank,  and  rear. 

SHERIDAN   AT   CEDAR  CREEK 

[October  19,  1864] 

SHOE  the  steed  with  silver 
That  bore  him  to  the  fray, 


When  he  heard  the  guns  at  dawning  — 

Miles  away; 

When  he  heard  them  calling,  calling  — 
Mount!  nor  stay: 

Quick,  or  all  is  lost; 
They '  ve  surprised  and  stormed  the  post, 
They  push  your  routed  host  — 
Gallop!  retrieve  the  day. 

House  the  horse  in  ermine  — 

For  the  foam-flake  blew 
White  through  the  red  October; 

He  thundered  into  view; 
They  cheered  him  in  the  looming. 
Horseman  and  horse  they  knew. 
The  turn  of  the  tide  began, 
The  rally  of  bugles  ran, 
He  swung  his  hat  in  the  van; 
The  electric  hoof-spark  flew. 

Wreathe  the  steed  and  lead  him  — 

For  the  charge  he  led 
Touched  and  turned  the  cypress 

Into  amaranths  for  the  head 
Of  Philip,  king  of  riders, 

Who  raised  them  from  the  dead. 
The  camp  (at  dawning  lost) 
By  eve,  recovered  —  forced, 
Rang  with  laughter  of  the  host 
As  belated  Early  fled. 

Shroud  the  horse  in  sable  — 

For  the  mounds  they  heap! 
There  is  firing  in  the  Valley, 

And  yet  no  strife  they  keep; 
It  is  the  parting  volley. 
It  is  the  pathos  deep. 

There  is  glory  for  the  brave 
Who  lead,  and  nobly  save, 
But  no  knowledge  in  the  grave 
Where  the  nameless  followers  sleep. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 

Sheridan,  returning  from  Washington,  had  slept 
at  Winchester  the  night  of  October  18,  1864,  and 
early  next  morning  heard  the  sounds  of  the  battle. 
He  mounted  his  horse  and  started  for  the  field, 
reached  there  just  in  time  to  rally  his  retreating 
troops,  turned  a  defeat  into  a  decisive  victory,  and 
drove  the  invaders  pell-mell  back  to  Virginia. 

SHERIDAN'S   RIDE 

[October  19,  1864| 

U»>  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 


522 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door. 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar. 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down: 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning 

light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight; 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 
He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed. 
Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thunder 
ing  south, 

The  dust  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and 
faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the 
master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their 
walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full 

play. 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire; 
But,  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops ; 
What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him 

both. 
Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 


He  dashed  down  the  line,    mid  a  storm  of 

huzzas. 
And  the  wave  ot  retreat  checked  its  course 

there,  because 
The   sight   of   the   master   compelled  it   to 

pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger 

was  gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's 

play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say: 
"1  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  horse  and  man! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 

There,  with  the  glorious  general's  name,' 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright  : 

"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 

By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester  —  twenty  miles  away ! " 
THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


Grant,  meanwhile,  steadily  tightened  his  grip 
on  Richmond,  and  Lee  at  last  perceived  that  to 
hold  the  capital  longer  would  be  to  sacrifice  his 
army.  He  withdrew  during  the  night  of  April  2, 
1865,  and  the  Union  troops  entered  the  city  un 
opposed  next  day. 


THE   YEAR   OF   JUBILEE 

fSung  by  the  negro  troops  as  they  entered  Rich 
mond] 

SAY,  darkeys,  hab  you  seen  de  massa, 

Wid  de  muffstash  on  he  face, 
Go  long  de  road  some  time  dis  mornin'. 

Like  he  gwine  itroe  de  place? 
He  see  de  smoke  way  up  de  ribber 
Whar  de  Lincum  gunboats  lay; 
He  took  he  hat  an'  left'  berry  sudden, 
And  I  spose  he's  runned  away. 
De  massa  run,  ha,  ha! 
De  darkey  stay,  ho,  ho! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yai  cb  jubilo. 

He  six  foot  one  way  an'  two  foot  todder, 
An'  he  weigh  six  hundred  poun' ; 

His  coat  so  big  he  could  n't  pay  de  tailor, 
An'  it  won't  reach  half  way  roun' ; 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND 


523 


He  drill  so  much  dey  calls  him  cap'n, 

An'  he  git  so  mighty  tanned, 
I  spec  he'll  try  to  fool  dem  Yankees, 
For  to  tink  he  contraband. 
De  massa  run,  ha,  ha! 
De  darkey  stay,  ho,  ho! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  jubilo. 

De  darkeys  got  so  lonesome  libb'n 

In  de  log  hut  on  de  lawn, 
Dey  moved  dere  tings  into  massa's  parlor 

For  to  keep  it  while  he  gone. 
Dar's  wine  an'  cider  in  de  kitchin. 

An'  de  darkeys  dey  hab  some, 
I  spec  it  will  be  all  fiscated. 
When  de  Lincum  sojers  come. 
De  massa  run,  ha,  ha! 
De  darkey  stay,  ho,  ho! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  jubilo. 

De  oberseer  he  makes  us  trubble, 

An'  he  dribe  us  roun'  a  spell, 
We  lock  him  up  in  de  smoke-house  cellar, 

Wid  de  key  flung  in  de  well. 
De  whip  am  lost,  de  han'-cuff  broke, 

But  de  massy  hab  his  pay; 
He  big  an'  ole  enough  for  to  know  better 
Dan  to  went  an'  run  away. 
De  massa  run,  ha,  ha! 
De  darkey  stay,  ho,  ho! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  jubilo. 

HENRY  CLAY  WORK. 


VIRGINIA   CAPTA 

APRIL,  1865 

UNCONQUER'D  captive!  —  close  thine  eye, 
And  draw  the  ashen  sackcloth  o'er, 
And  in  thy  speechless  woe  deplore 

The  fate  that  would  not  let  thee  die ! 

The  arm  that  wore  the  shield,  strip  bare; 
The  hand  that  held  the  martial  rein, 
And  hurled  the  spear  on  many  a  plain,  — 

Stretch  —  till  they  clasp  the  shackles  there! 

The  foot  that  once  could  crush  the  crown, 
Must  drag  the  fetters,  till  it  bleed 
Beneath  their  weight :  —  thou  dost  not  need 

It  now,  to  tread  the  tyrant  down. 


Thou  thought's!  him  vanquished  —  boastful 

trust!  — 

His  lance,  in  t\vain  —  his  sword,  a  wreck, — 
But  with  his  heel  upon  thy  neck, 

He  holds  thee  prostrate  in  the  dust! 

Bend  though  thou  must,  beneath  his  will, 
Let  not  one  abject  moan  have  place; 
But  with  majestic,  silent  grace, 

Maintain  thy  regal  bearing  still. 

Look  back  through  all  thy  storied  past, 
And  sit  erect  in  conscious  pride: 
No  grander  heroes  ever  died  — 

No  sterner,  battled  to  the  last! 

Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  with  proud,  sad  mien, 
Thy  blasted  hopes  —  thy  peace  undone,  — 
Yet  brave,  live  on,  —  nor  seek  to  shun 

Thy  fate,  like  Egypt's  conquer'd  Queen. 

Though  forced  a  captive's  place  to  fill 
In  the  triumphal  train,  —  yet  there, 
Superbly,  like  Zenobia,  wear 

Thy  chains,  —  Virginia  Victrix  still ! 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 


Tidings  of  the  fall  of  Richmond  went  over  the 
North  with  lightning  speed,  and  in  every  city, 
every  town  and  hamlet,  public  demonstrations 
were  held. 


THE   FALL  OF   RICHMOND 

THE    TIDINGS    RECEIVED    IN    THE    NORTHERN 
METROPOLIS  (APRIL,  1865) 

WHAT  mean  these  peals  from  every  tower. 
And  crowds  like  seas  that  sway? 

The  cannon  reply;  they  speak  the  heart 
Of  the  People  impassioned,  and  say  — • 

A  city  in  flags  for  a  city  in  flames, 
Richmond  goes  Babylon's  way  — 
Sing  and  pray. 

O  weary  years  and  woeful  wars, 

And  armies  in  the  grave; 
But  hearts  unquelled  at  last  deter 
The  helmed  dilated  Lucifer  — 

Honor  to  Grant  the  brave. 
Whose  three  stars  now  like  Orion's  rise 

W7hen  wreck  is  on  the  wave  — 
Bless  his  glaive. 


524 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Well  that  the  faith  we  firmly  kept, 

And  never  our  aim  forswore 
For  the  Terrors  that  trooped  from  each  recess 
When  fainting  we  fought  in  the  Wilderness, 

And  Hell  made  loud  hurrah; 
But  God  is  in  Heaven,  and  Grant  in  the  Town, 
And  Right  through  Might  is  Law  — 
God's  way  adore. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


Lee,  meanwhile,  was  trying  desperately  to 
escape  the  force  which  Grant  had  sent  in  pursuit 
of  him.  His  army  was  dreadfully  shattered  and 
without  supplies;  his  horses  were  too  weak  to 
draw  the  cannon;  and  he  soon  found  himself 
surrounded  by  a  vastly  superior  force.  To  fight 
would  have  been  folly;  instead,  he  sent  forward  a 
white  flag,  and  surrendered  at  two  o'clock  on 
the  afternoon  of  Palm  Sunday,  April  9,  1865. 


[April  9,  1865] 

As  billows  upon  billows  roll, 
On  victory  victory  breaks; 
Ere  yet  seven  days  from  Richmond's  fall 

And  crowning  triumph  wakes 
The  loud  joy-gun,  whose  thunders  run 
By  sea-shore,  streams,  and  lakes. 
The  hope  and  great  event  agree 
In  the  sword  that  Grant  received  from 
Lee. 

The  warring  eagles  fold  the  wing, 

But  not  in  Caesar's  sway; 
Not  Rome  o'ercome  by  Roman  arms  we  sing, 

As  on  Pharsalia's  day, 

But  Treason  thrown,  though  a  giant  grown, 
And  Freedom's  larger  play. 

All  human  tribes  glad  token  see 
In  the  close  of  the  wars  of  Grant  and 
Lee. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


Grant  was  generous  with  the  fallen  enemy; 
too  generous,  some  of  the  patriot  politicians 
thought,  in  releasing  Lee  and  his  officers  on  parole; 
but  Grant  insisted  that  the  terms  he  had  given 
be  carried  out  to  the  letter. 


LEE'S  PAROLE 

'WELL,  General  Grant,  have  you  heard  the 

news? 
How  the  orders  are  issued  and  ready  to  send 


For  Lee,  and  the  men  in  his  staff-command, 
To  be  under  arrest,  —  now  the  war 's  at  an 
end?" 

"How  so?  Arrested  for  what?"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  for  trial  as  traitors,  to  be  shot,  or 

hung." 
The  chief's  eye  flashed  with  a  sudden  ire, 

And  his  face  grew  crimson  as  up  he  sprung. 
"Orderly,  fetch  me  my  horse,"  he  said. 

Then  into  the  saddle  and  up  the  street, 
As  if  the  battle  were  raging  ahead, 

Went  the  crash  of  the  old  war-charger's  feet. 

"What  is  this  I  am  told  about  I^ee's  arrest,  — 

Is  it  true  ?"  —  and  the  keen  eyes  searched 

his  soul. 
"It  is  true,  and  the  order  will  be  enforced!" 

"My  word  was  given  in  their  parole 
At  Richmond,  and  that  parole 

Has  not  been  broken,  —  nor  has  my  word, 
Nor  mil  be  until  there  is  better  cause 

For  breaking  than  this  I  have  lately  heard." 

"Do  you  know,  sir,  whom  you  have  thus 
addressed  ? 

I  am  the  War  Department's  head  — " 
"And  I  —  am  General  Grant! 

At  your  peril  order  arrests!"  he  said. 


A  friend  is  a  friend,  as  we  reckon  worth, 
Who  will  throw  the  gauntlet  in  friendship's 

fight; 
But  a  man  is  a  man  in  peace  or  war 

Who  will  stake  his  all  for  an  enemy's  right. 
*T  was    a    hard-fought    battle,    but   quickly 

won,  — 

As  a  fight  must  be  when  't  is  soul  to  soul,  — 
And  't  was  years  ago ;  but  that  honored  word 
Preserved  the  North  in  the  South's  parole. 
MARION  MANVILLE. 


In  disbanding  his  army.  Lee  issued  a  farewell 
address,  copies  of  which  are  still  treasured  in 
many  a  Southern  home.  Even  in  the  North,  he  has 
come  to  be  recognized  as  the  great  general  and 
true  gentleman  he  really  was. 

ROBERT   E.   LEE 

A  GALLANT  foeman  in  the  fight, 
A  brother  when  the  fight  was  o'er, 

The  hand  that  led  the  host  with  might 
The  blessed  torch  of  learning  bore. 


THE  EAGLE  AND  VULTURE 


525 


No  shriek  of  shells  nor  roll  of  drums, 
No  challenge  fierce,  resounding  far, 

When  reconciling  Wisdom  comes 
To  heal  the  cruel  wounds  of  war. 


Thought  may  the  minds  of  men  divide, 
Love  makes  the  heart  of  nations  one, 

And  so,  thy  soldier  grave  beside, 
We  honor  thee,  Virginia's  son. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


CHAPTER   XI 


WINSLOW   AND   FARRAGUT 


During  the  Civil  War,  the  Confederates  com 
missioned  a  large  number  of  privateers  to  prey 
upon  Northern  commerce,  the  most  famous  of 
which  was  the  Alabama,  commanded  by  Raphael 
Semmes.  Semmes  had  orders  to  sink,  burn,  and 
destroy  everything  flying  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 
and  carried  them  out  in  the  most  thorough-going 
way.  On  June  11,  1864,  the  Alabama  entered  the 
harbor  of  Cherbourg,  France.  Three  days  later, 
the  United  States  sloop-of-war  Kearsarge,  Captain 
John  A.  Winslow,  appeared  in  the  offing,  and 
both  ships  prepared  for  battle.  The  Alabama 
steamed  out  of  the  harbor  on  the  morning  of 
Sunday,  June  19,  and  was  soon  reduced  to  a  wreck 
by  the  deadly  fire  from  the  Kearsarge.  She  sank 
while  trying  to  run  inshore. 


THE  EAGLE  AND   VULTURE 

[June,  1864] 

IN  Cherbourg  Roads  the  pirate  lay 
One  morn  in  June,  like  a  beast  at  bay, 
Feeling  secure  in  the  neutral  port, 
Under  the  guns  of  the  Frenchman's  fort; 
A  thieving  vulture;  a  coward  thing; 
Sheltered  beneath  a  despot's  wing. 

But  there  outside,  in  the  calm  blue  bay, 
Our  ocean-eagle,  the  Kearsargc,  lay; 
Lay  at  her  ease  on  the  Sunday  morn, 
Holding  the  Corsair  ship  in  scorn ; 
With  captain  and  crew  in  the  might  of  their 

right, 
Willing  to  pray,  but  more  eager  to  fight. 

Four  bells  are  struck,  and  this  thing  of  night, 
Like  a  panther,  crouching  with  fierce  affright, 
Must  leap  from  his  cover,  and,  come  what 

may, 

Must  fight  for  his  life,  or  steal  away ! 
So,  out  of  the  port  with  his  braggart  air, 
With  flaunting  flags,  sailed  the  proud  Corsair. 

The  Cherbourg  cliffs  were  all  alive 
With  lookers-on,  like  a  swarming  hive; 


While  compelled  to  do  what  he  dared  not 

shirk, 

The  pirate  went  to  his  desperate  work; 
And  Europe's  tyrants  looked  on  in  glee, 
As  they  thought  of  our  Kearsarge  sunk  in  the 


But  our  little  bark  smiled  back  at  them 
A  smile  of  contempt,  with  that  Union  gem, 
The  American  banner,  far  floating  and  free. 
Proclaiming  her  champions  were  out  on  the 

sea; 
Were  out  on  the  sea,  and  abroad  on  the 

land. 
Determined  to  win  under  God's  command. 

Down  came  the  vulture;  our  eagle  sat  still, 
Waiting  to  strike  with  her  iron-clad  bill; 
Convinced  by  the  glow  of  his  glorious  cause, 
He  could  crumple  his  foe  in  the  grasp  of  his 
claws. 

"  Clear  the  decks,"  then  said  Winslow,  words 

measured  and  slow; 
"  Point  the  guns,  and  prepare  for  the  terrible 

blow; 

And  whatever  the  fate  to  ourselves  may  be, 
We  will  sink  in  the  ocean  this  pest  of  the 

sea." 

The  decks  were  all  cleared,  and  the  guns  were 

all  manned, 

Awaiting  to  meet  this  Atlantic  brigand; 
When,  lo!  roared  a  broadside;  the  ship  of  the 

thief 
Was  torn,  and  wept  blood  in  that  moment  of 

grief. 

Another!  another!  another!    And  still 

The  broadsides  went  in  with  a  hearty  good 

will, 
Till  the  pirate  reeled  wildly,  as  staggering  and 

drunk, 
And  down  to  his  own  native  regions  he  sunk. 


526 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Down,  down,  forty  fathoms  beneath  the  blue 

wave, 
And  the  hopes  of  old  Europe  lie  in  the  same 

grave ; 
While  Freedom,  more  firm,  stands  upon  her 

own  sod, 
And  for  heroes   like   Winslow  is  shouting, 

"Thank  God!" 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


KEARSARGE   AND   ALABAMA 

[June  19,  1864] 

IT  was  early  Sunday  morning,  in  the  year  of 

sixty-four, 
The   Alabama   she  steam'd   out   along   the 

Frenchman's  shore. 
Long  time  she  cruised  about, 
Long  time  she  held  her  sway, 
But  now  beneath  the  Frenchman's  shore  she 

lies  off  Cherbourg  Bay. 
Hoist  up  the  flag,  and  long  may  it  wave 
Over  the  Union,  the  home  of  the  brave. 
Hoist  up  the  flag,  and  long  may  it  wave, 
God  bless  America,  the  home  of  the 
brave! 

The  Yankee  cruiser  hove  in  view,  the  Kear- 

sarge  was  her  name, 
It  ought  to  be  engraved  in  full  upon  the  scroll 

of  fame; 

Her  timbers  made  of  Yankee  oak, 
And  her  crew  of  Yankee  tars. 
And  o'er  her  mizzen  peak  she  floats  the  glo 
rious  stripes  and  stars. 

A  challenge  unto  Captain  Semmes,  bold  Win- 
slow  he  did  send! 
44  Bring  on  your  Alabama,  and  to  her  we  will 

attend, 

For  we  think  your  boasting  privateer 
Is  not  so  hard  to  whip; 
And  we'll  show  you  that  the  Kearsarge  is  not 
a  merchant  ship." 

It  was  early  Sunday  morning,  in  the  year  of 

sixty-four, 
The  Alabama  she  stood  out  and  cannons  loud 

did  roar; 
The  Kearsarge  stood  undaunted,  and  quickly 

she  replied 
And  let  a  Yankee  'leven-inch  shell  go  tearing 

through  her  side. 


The  Kearsarge  then  she  wore  around  and 

broadside  on  did  bear, 
With  shot  and  shell  and  right  good-will,  her 

timbers  she  did  tear; 
When  they   found  that  they  were  sinking, 

down  came  the  stars  and  bars, 
For  the  rebel  gunners  could  not  stand  the 

glorious  stripes  and  stars. 

The  Alabama  she  is  gone,  she'll  cruise  the 

seas  no  more, 
She  met  the  fate  she  well  deserved  along  the 

Frenchman's  shore; 
Then  here  is  luck  to  the  Kearsarge,  we  know 

what  she  can  do. 
Likewise  to  Captain  Winslow  and  his  brave 

and  gallant  crew. 

Hoist  up  the  flag,  and  long  may  it  wave 
Over  the  Union,  the  home  of  the  brave! 
Hoist  up  the  flag,  and  long  may  it  wave, 
God  bless  America,  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

KEARSARGE 

[June  19,  1864] 

SUNDAY  in  Old  England: 
In  gray  churches  everywhere 

The  calm  of  low  responses, 
The  sacred  hush  of  prayer. 

Sunday  in  Old  England; 

And  summer  winds  that  went 
O'er  the  pleasant  fields  of  Sussex, 

The  garden  lands  of  Kent, 

Stole  into  dim  church  windows 
And  passed  the  oaken  door, 

And  fluttered  open  prayer-books 
With  the  cannon's  awful  roar. 

Sunday  in  New  England: 

Upon  a  mountain  gray 
The  wind-bent  pines  are  swaying 

Like  giants  at  their  play; 

Across  the  barren  lowlands, 
Where  men  find  scanty  food, 

The  north  wind  brings  its  vigor 
To  homesteads  plain  and  rude. 

Ho,  land  of  pine  and  granite! 

Ho,  hardy  northland  breeze! 
Well  have  you  trained  the  manhood 

That  shook  the  Channel  seas, 


CRAVEN 


.•527 


When  o'er  those  storied  waters 

The  iron  war- bolts  flew. 
And  through  Old  England's  churches 

The  summer  breezes  blew; 

While  in  our  other  England 
Stirred  one  gaunt  rocky  steep, 

When  rode  her  sons  as  victors, 
Lords  of  the  lonely  deep. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

LONDON,  July  20,  1864. 


THE  ALABAMA 

SHE  has  gone  to  the  bottom !  the  wrath  of  the 

tide 

Now  breaks  in  vain  insolence  o'er  her; 
No  more  the  rough  seas  like  a  queen  shall  she 

ride, 
While  the  foe  flies  in  terror  before  her! 

Now  captive  or  exiled,  or  silent  in  death, 
The  forms  that  so  bravely  did  man  her; 

Her  deck  is  untrod,  and  the  gale's  stirring 

breath 
Flouts  no  more  the  red  cross  of  her  banner ! 

She  is  down  'neath  the  waters,  but  still  her 

bright  name 

Is  in  death,  as  in  life,  ever  glorious, 
And  a  sceptre  all  barren  the  conqueror  must 

claim, 

Though   he  boasts  the  proud  title  "Vic 
torious." 

Her  country's  lone  champion,  she  shunned 

not  the  fight, 

Though  unequal  in  strength,  bold  and  fear 
less; 
And  proved  in  her  fate,  though  not  matchless 

in  might, 
In  daring  at  least  she  was  peerless. 

No  trophy  hung  high  in  the  foe's  hated  hall 
Shall  speak  of  her  final  disaster, 

Nor  tell  of  the  danger  that  could  not  appall, 
Nor  the  spirit  that  nothing  could  master! 

The  death-shot  has  sped  —  she  has  grimly 

gone  down, 

But  left  her  destroyer  no  token, 
And   the  mythical  wand  of  her  mystic  re 
nown. 
Though  the  waters  o'erwhelm,  is  unbroken. 


For   lo!    ere  she  settles   beneath  the  dark 

wave 

On  her  enemies'  cheeks  spreads  a  pallor, 
As  another  deck  summons  the  swords  of  the 

brave 
To  gild  a  new  name  with  their  valor. 

Her  phantom  will  yet  haunt  the  wild  roaring 

breeze, 

Causing  foemen  to  start  and  to  shudder, 
While  their  commerce  still  steals  like  a  thief 

o'er  the  seas, 
And  trembles  from  bowsprit  to  rudder. 

(The  spirit  that  shed  on  the  wave's  gleaming 
crest 

The  light  of  a  legend  romantic 
Shall  live  while  a  sail  flutters  over  the  breast 

Of  thy  far-bounding  billows,  Atlantic! 

And  as  long  as  one  swift  keel  the  strong  surges 

stems, 
Or  "poor  Jack"  loves  his  song  and  his 

story, 

Shall  shine  in  tradition  the  valor  of  Semmes 
And  the  brave  ship  that  bore  him  to  glory! 
MAURICE  BEL:,. 


Mobile  and  Wilmington  were  the  only  important 
Confederate  ports  still  open,  and  early  in  August, 
1864,  Admiral  Farragut  appeared  off  Mobile  with 
a  fleet  of  eighteen  vessels.  The  entrance  to  the  har 
bor  was  strongly  defended  by  forts  on  both  sides, 
but  Farragut  determined  to  run  past  them.  On 
August  5  the  fleet  advanced,  but  the  Tecumseh, 
leading  the  fleet,  struck  a  torpedo  and  sank  in 
stantly,  carrying  down  nearly  all  her  crew,  includ 
ing  T.  A.  M.  Craven,  her  commander,  who  drew 
aside  from  the  ladder  that  the  pilot  might  pass 
first. 

CRAVEN 

[August  5,  1864] 

OVER  the  turret,  shut  in  his  ironclad  tower. 
Craven  was  conning  his  ship  through  smoke 

and  flame; 
Gun  to  gun  he  had  battered  the  fort  for  an 

hour. 

Now  was  the  time  for  a  charge  to  end  the 
game. 

There  lay  the  narrowing  channel,  smooth  and 

grim, 

A  hundred  deaths  beneath  it,  and  never  a 
sign; 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


There  lay  the  enemy's  ships,  and  sink  or 

swim 

The  flag  was  flying,  and  he  was  head  of  the 
line. 

The  fleet  behind  was  jamming:  the  monitor 

hung 
Beating  the  stream ;  the  roar  for  a  moment 

hushed ; 

Craven  spoke  to  the  pilot;  slow  she  swung; 
Again  he  spoke,  and  right  for  the  foe  she 
rushed 

Into  the  narrowing  channel,  between  the  shore 
And  the  sunk  torpedoes  lying  in  treacherous 

rank ; 
She  turned  but  a  yard  too  short;  a  muffled 

roar, 

A    mountainous    wave,    and    she    rolled, 
righted,  and  sank. 

Over  the  manhole,  up  in  the  ironclad  tower, 

Pilot  and  captain  met  as  they  turned  to  fly : 

The  hundredth  part  of  a  moment  seemed  an 

hour, 

For  one  could  pass  to  be  saved,  and  one 
must  die. 

They  stood  like  men  in  a  dream ;  Craven 

spoke,  — 

Spoke  as  he  lived  and  fought,  with  a  cap 
tain's  pride: 
"  After  you.  Pilot."  The  pilot  woke, 

Down  the  ladder  he  went,  and  Craven  died. 

All  men  praise  the  deed  and  the  manner;  but 

we  — 
We  set  it  apart  from  the  pride  that  stoops 

to  the  proud, 
The  strength  that  is  supple  to  serve  the  strong 

and  free. 

The  grace  of  the  empty  hands  and  pro 
mises  loud; 

Sidney  thirsting  a  humbler  need  to  slake, 
Nelson  waiting  his  turn  for  the  surgeon's 

hand, 
Lucas  crushed  with  chains  for  a  comrade's 

sake, 
Outram  coveting  right  before  command, 

These  were  paladins,  these  were  Craven's 

peers. 

These  with  him  shall  be  crowned  in  story 
and  song, 


Crowned  with  the  glitter  of  steel  and  the  glim 
mer  of  tears, 

Princes  of  courtesy,  merciful,  proud,  and 
strong. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


Farragut,  who  had  lashed  himself  to  the  shrouds 
of  his  flagship,  the  Hartford,  observed  the  Brook 
lyn,  which  preceded  him,  recoil  as  the  Tecumseh 
sank.  "What 's  the  trouble?"  he  signalled.  "Tor 
pedoes!"  answered  the  Brooklyn.  "Damn  the 
torpedoes!'1  shouted  Farragut.  "Go  ahead,  Cap 
tain  Drayton!  Four  bells!"  and  the  Hartford 
cleared  the  Brooklyn  and  took  the  lead. 


FARRAGUT 

(MOBILE  BAY,  August  5,  1864) 

FARRAGUT,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke. 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat ! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums; 
Men !  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 
Thunderbolt  Farragut 

Hurls  the  black  ships. 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
*By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"Nor'  by  East  keep  her,': 
'Steady,"  but  two  alive: 

How  the  shells  sweep  her! 


THROUGH   FIRE  IN   MOBILE   BAY 


529 


Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 

While  the  spars  quiver; 
Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 

Where  the  hulks  shiver. 
See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 

Storm  and  fire  past. 
Cheer  him,  lads  —  Farragut, 

Lashed  to  the  mast ! 

Oh !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale, 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke! 

WILLIAM  TUCKEY  MEREDITH. 

On  went  the  flagship  across  the  line  of  torpe 
does,  but  not  one  of  them  exploded,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  one  of  the  most  daring  feats  in  the 
naval  history  of  the  world  had  been  safely  ac 
complished.  The  line  of  battle  was  reformed,  the 
forts  and  Confederate  fleet  savagely  attacked,  and 
by  nine  o'clock  the  Union  fleet  was  in  the  bay. 

THROUGH   FIRE  IN  MOBILE   BAY 

[August  5,  1864] 

I'D  weave  a  wreath  for  those  who  fought 

In  blue  upon  the  waves, 
I  drop  a  tear  for  all  who  sleep 

Down  in  the  coral  caves, 
And  proudly  do  I  touch  my  cap 

Whene'er  I  meet  to-day 
A  man  who  sail'd  with  Farragut 

Thro'  fire  in  Mobile  Bay. 

Oh,  what  a  gallant  sight  it  was 

As  toward  the  foe  we  bore! 
Lashed  to  the  mast,  unflinching,  stood 

Our  grand  old  Commodore. 
I  see  him  now  above  the  deck, 

Though  time  has  cleared  away 
The  battle  smoke  that  densely  hung 

Above  old  Mobile  Bay. 


Torpedoes  to  the  right  and  left, 

Torpedoes  straight  ahead ! 
The  stanch  Tecumseh  sinks  from  sight, 

The  waves  receive  her  dead. 
But  on  we  press,  thro'  lead  and  iron, 

On,  on  with  pennons  gay,  • 
Whilst  glory  holds  her  wreath  above 

Immortal  Mobile  Bay. 

The  rebel  forts  belch  fire  and  death, 

But  what  care  we  for  them  ? 
Our  onward  course,  with  Farragut 

To  guide  us,  nought  can  stem. 
The  Hartford  works  her  dreaded  guns, 

The  Brooklyn  pounds  away, 
And  proudly  flies  the  flag  of  stars 

Aloft  o'er  Mobile  Bay. 

Behold  yon  moving  mass  of  iron 

Beyond  the  Ossipee; 
To  fight  the  fleet  with  courage  grim 

Steams  forth  the  Tennessee. 
We  hem  her  in  with  battle  fire  — 

How  furious  grows  the  fray, 
Until  Surrender's  flag  she  flies 

Above  red  Mobile  Bay. 

We  count  our  dead,  we  count  our  scars. 

The  proudest  ever  won; 
We  cheer  the  flag  that  gayly  flies 

Victorious  in  the  sun. 
No  longer  in  the  rigging  stands 

The  hero  of  the  day, 
For  he  has  linked  his  name  fore'er 

To  deathless  Mobile  Bay. 

Thus  I  would  weave  a  wreath  for  all 

Who  fought  with  us  that  time, 
And  I  'd  embalm  that  glorious  day 

Forevermore  in  rhyme. 
The  stars  above  will  rise  and  set, 

The  years  will  jmss  away, 
But  brighter  all  the  time  shall  grow 

The  fame  of  Mobile  Bay. 

He  sleeps,  the  bluff  old  Commodore 

Who  led  with  hearty  will; 
But  ah !  methinks  I  see  him  now, 

flashed  to  the  rigging  still. 
I  know  that  just  beyond  the  tider 

In  God's  own  glorious  day, 
He  waits  to  greet  the  gallant  tars 

Who  fought  in  Mobile  Bay. 


530 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  ships  were  brought  to  anchor  and  break 
fast  was  being  served,  when  the  great  Confederate 
ram,  Tennessee,  was  seen  advancing  at  full  speed, 
to  attack  the  whole  fleet.  A  terrific  struggle 
followed,  in  which  nearly  every  one  of  the  Union 
ships  was  badly  damaged;  but  the  Tennessee 
at  last  became  unmanageable  and  was  forced 
to  surrender.  The  task  of  reducing  the  forts  re 
mained.  This  was  completed  in  a  few  days  and 
the  port  of  Mobile  was  effectually  closed. 

THE  BAY  FIGHT 

(MOBILE  HARBOR,  August  5,  1864) 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 

The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled. 

The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 
We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 

And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
The  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol. 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 
From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 

Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet  coastwise  as  we  cruised  or  lay. 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore. 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 

Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines,  — 

The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds. 
And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 

Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare, 
Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer! 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found. 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 


And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood, 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and. earthwork,  far  away. 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time,  —  but  to  the  strong 
The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came; 

And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long. 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame' 

'Man  your  starboard  battery!" 
Kimberly  shouted ;  — 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  'mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory; 
None  of  us  doubted, 
No,  not  our  dying  — 
Farragut's  Flag  was  flying! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 
Morgan  roared  on  our  right; 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight! 

Ha,  old  ship!  do  they  thrill. 

The  brave  two  hundred  scars 

You  got  in  the  River- Wars? 

That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard), 

Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 

Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 

With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 

And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 

At  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 

To  bide  the  battle's  frown 

(Wont  of  old  renown)  — 

But  every  ship  was  drest 

In  her  bravest  and  her -best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day: 

Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay  — 

At  every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 

The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 


THE   BAY  FIGHT 


With  hawsers  strong  and  taut. 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 
On  we  sailed  two  by  two  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze,  or  sinew  of  steel. 
Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Forging  boldly  ahead. 

The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 

Grandest  of  sights! 

On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 

Our  leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights. 

So  we  went  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  'mid  the  roar 

Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore 

And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state 
We  once  held  these  fellows ! 
Here  on  the  flood's  pale  green, 
Hark  how  he  bellows, 
Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer! 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 
Parrott,  and  Sawyer! 

On,  in  the  whirling  shade 
Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 
That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid,  — 
Meshed  in  a  horrible  net. 
And  baited  villainous  well, 
Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn! 

There,  while  the  cannon 

Hurtled  and  thundered 

(Ah,  what  ill  raven 

Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn!),  — 

Caught  by  the  under-death, 

In  the  drawing  of  a  breath 

Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 

He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 

And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave ;  — 

In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument 

(Seen  afar  in  the  offing), 


Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 
And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then  in  that  deadly  track 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 
Closing  up  in  their  stations;  — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 
Of  battles  and  of  nations 
(Christening  the  generations). 
When  valor  were  all  too  late. 
If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored;  — 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief. 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  chief: 
'Go  on!"  —  't  was  all  he  said,  — 
Our  helm  was  put  to  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay. 

With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  bay): 

There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 

And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 

Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss; 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft!  — 

In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay, 

By  the  Middle-Ground  they  lay, 

Raking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot  — 

How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung ! 

And  the  water- batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 

Till  the  air  around  us  rung; 

So  the  battle  raged  and  roared ;  — 

Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made! 

How  they  leapt,  the  tongues  of  flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip! 

How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 

Shook  the  great  ship! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 
Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft. 
Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 
And  falling  in  oaken  showers;  — 
But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew! 
Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 
You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 
Boldly  they  worked  and  well  — 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 
Steadily  came  the  shell. 


532 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 
Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck  — 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 
All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 

Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor;  — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 

And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 

There    were    black    orbs    from    palmy 

Niger,  — 

But  there  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 
Our  consort  began  to  burn  — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 
And  still  the  fleet  were  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 
In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 
Broadsides  thundering  away, 
And  lightning  from  every  port; 
Scene  of  glory  and  dread ! 
A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 
With  flashes  of  fiery  red, 
The  thunder  raging  below. 
And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead ! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar. 
So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 
The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  foe, 

Moving  grimly  and  slow. 

They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 

Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned,  — 

Death  in  the  air  all  round, 

And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead. 
All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 
Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red,  — 
But  soon,  as  once  and  again 
Fore  and  aft  we  sped 
(The  firing  to  guide  or  check). 
You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 
On  the  ghastly  human  wreck 
(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 
That  a  minute  ago  were  men!), 


Red,  from  mainmast  to  bitts! 
Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale, 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch, 
Red,  o'er  netting  and  vail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  con, 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by,  — 
And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 
And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 
How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead, 
Fighting  square  abreast  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red, 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile. 
Worth  all  the  weary  time, 
Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 
To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime ! 

Fear  ?  A  forgotten  form ! 
Death  ?  A  dream  of  the  eyes! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 
That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 
One  only  dread  we  knew,  — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers  ? 
Would  the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 
And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew,  — 
Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail 
(How  aforetime  they've  fought!), 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail,  — 
They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip. 
Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship; 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank! 

A  dimmer  renown  might  strike 

If  Death  lay  square  alongside,  — 

But  the  old  Flag  has  no  like. 

She  must  fight,  whatever  betide;  — 

When  the  War  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died! 


THE   BAY   FIGHT 


533 


But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 
And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 
The  enemy  turned  and  fled  — 
And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach ! 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in ;  — 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 
Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 
Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 
And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey), 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 
Sheered  off,  and  ran  for  the  fleet; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 
He  fought  them  gun  for  gun; 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 
But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 
Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 
'T  was  just  one  savage  hour 
Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 

With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 
Our  glasses  around  we  aim,  — 
What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 
Our  Philippi — aground  and  in  flame! 

Below,  't  was  still  all  a-roar, 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore. 
But  the  fire  of  the  Fort  had  slacked 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been),  — 
And  now  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 
Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 
The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead,  — 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 
To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 
And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag,  — 
When  lo!  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag:  — 
The  Ram  is  again  under  way 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 

Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 

Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 

And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 

Ever  on  bow  and  beam 


Our  Monitors  pounded  away; 

How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away ! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 
Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 
Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam;  — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work 
(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag!), 
The  Lackawanna  hit  fair, 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork, 
And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen  shroud 
(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'erwhelm), 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud; 
" Hard-a-starboard  your  helm! 
Starboard,  and  run  him  down  I" 
Starboard  it  was,  —  and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 
On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 
In  battle  and  stormy  weather; 
Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 
When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 
The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 
Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 
Kindly  cynic,  and  wise 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now, 
The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes!),  — 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 
A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us; 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 
And  a  voice  yelled,  "  Hard-a-port  I 
Hard-a-port  I — here 's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us!" 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl; 
He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun ; 
But  as  he  passed  in  his  pride 
(Rasping  right  alongside!), 
The  old  Flag,  in  thunder-tones 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide 
And  cracking  his  timber-bones! 


534 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 

The  great  Lackawanna  came  down 

Full  tilt,  for  another  blow;  — 

We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed  —  but,  for  all  our  pains, 

Rammed  the  old  Hartford,  instead, 

Just  for'ard  the  mizzen  chains! 

Ah !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 
And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end! 
(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel, 
She  was  under  full  steam)  — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 
Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam! 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay 

(Rib  and  plank -sheer  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge !)  — 

Here,  after  all,  we  go  — 

The  old  ship  is  gone!  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then,  —  at  him  again! 
His  flurry  now  can't  last  long; 
He'll  never  again  see  land,  — 
Try  that  on  him,  Marchand ! 
On  him  again,  brave  Strong! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 

Full  on  his  beam  we  bore; 

But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 

Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, 

He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this,  he  had  found  it  hot;  — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  thing, 
Hammering  with  solid  shot, 
And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow; 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose,  — 
Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold ; 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem  ? 

He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 

He  sank  in  the  Cumberland; 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight! 
Can  he  strike?  By  Heaven,  't  is  true! 


Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White! 

Up  went  the  White!   Ah,  then 
The  hurrahs  that  once  and  again 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 
All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight! 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark; 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 
Answered  as  best  they  might. 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 
And  cheering  for  God  and  Right! 

Ended  the  mighty  noise, 

Thunder  of  forts  and  ships. 

Down  we  went  to  the  hold. 

Oh,  our  dear  dying  boys ! 

How  we  pressed  their  poor  brave  lips 

(Ah,  so  pallid  and  cold !) 

And  held  their  hands  to  the  last 

(Those  who  had  hands  to  hold). 

Still  thee,  O  woman  heart! 
(So  strong  an  hour  ago) ; 
If  the  idle  tears  must  start, 
'T  is  not  in  vain  they  flow. 

They  died,  our  children  dear. 

On  the  drear  berth-deck  they  died,  — 

Do  not  think  of  them  here  — 

Even  now  their  footsteps  near 

The  immortal,  tender  sphere 

(Land  of  love  and  cheer! 

Home  of  the  Crucified!). 

And  the  glorious  deed  survives; 
Our  threescore,  quiet  and  cold, 
Lie  thus,  for  a  myriad  lives 
And  treasure-millions  untold 
(Labor  of  poor  men's  lives, 
Hunger  of  weans  and  wives, 
Such  is  war-wasted  gold). 

Our  ship  and  her  fame  to-day 
Shall  float  on  the  storied  Stream 
Wrhen  mast  and  shroud  have  crumbled  away 
And  her  long  white  deck  is  a  dream. 

One  daring  leap  in  the  dark, 
Three  mortal  hours,  at  the  most,  — 
And  hell  lies  stiff  and  stark 
On  a  hundred  leagues  of  coast. 

For  the  mighty  Gulf  is  ours,  — • 
The  bay  is  lost  and  won, 
An  Empire  is  lost  and  won! 
Land,  if  thou  yet  hast  flowers,     ••..', 


ALBEMARLE   GUSHING 


535 


Twine  them  in  one  more  wreath 
Of  tenderest  white  and  red 
(Twin  buds  of  glory  and  death !), 
For  the  brows  of  our  brave  dead, 
For  thy  Navy's  noblest  son. 

Joy,  O  Land,  for  thy  sons, 
Victors  by  flood  and  field! 
The  traitor  walls  and  guns 
Have  nothing  left  but  to  yield 
(Even  now  they  surrender!). 

And  the  ships  shall  sail  once  more, 
And  the  cloud  of  war  sweep  on 
To  break  on  the  cruel  shore;  — 
But  Craven  is  gone, 
He  and  his  hundred  are  gone. 

The  flags  flutter  up  and  down 
At  sunrise  and  twilight  dim. 
The  cannons  menace  and  frown,  — 
But  never  again  for  him, 
Him  and  the  hundred. 

The  Dahlgrens  are  dumb, 
Dumb  are  the  mortars; 
Never  more  shall  the  drum 
Beat  to  colors  and  quarters,  — 
The  great  guns  are  silent. 

O  brave  heart  and  loyal ! 
Let  all  your  colors  dip;  — 
Mourn  him  proud  ship! 
From  main  deck  to  royal. 
God  rest  our  Captain, 
Rest  our  lost  hundred! 

Droop,  flag  and  pennant! 
What  is  your  pride  for  ? 
Heaven,  that  he  died  for, 
Rest  our  Lieutenant, 
Rest  our  brave  threescore! 

O  Mother  Land !  this  weary  life 
We  led,  we  lead,  is  'long  of  thee; 

Thine  the  strong  agony  of  strife, 
And  thine  the  lonely  sea. 

Thine  the  long  decks  all  slaughter-sprent, 
The  weary  rows  of  cots  that  lie 

With  wrecks  of  strong  men,  marred  and  rent, 
'Neath  Pensacola's  sky. 

And  thine  the  iron  caves  and  dens 

Wherein  the  flame  our  war-fleet  drives; 

The  fiery  vaults,  whose  breath  is  men's 
Most  dear  and  precious  lives ! 


Ah,  ever  when  with  storm  sublime 
Dread  Nature  clears  our  murky  air, 

Thus  in  the  crash  of  falling  crime 
Some  lesser  guilt  must  share. 

Full  red  the  furnace  fires  must  glow 
That  melt  the  ore  of  mortal  kind; 

The  mills  of  God  are  grinding  slow, 
But  ah,  how  close  they  grind ! 

To-day  the  Dahlgren  and  the  drum 
Are  dread  Apostles  of  His  Name; 

His  kingdom  here  can  only  come 
By  chrism  of  blood  and  flame. 

Be  strong:  already  slants  the  gold 
Athwart  these  wild  and  stormy  skies: 

From  out  this  blackened  waste,  behold 
What  happy  homes  shall  rise! 

But  see  thou  well  no  traitor  gloze, 
No  striking  hands  with  Death  and  Shame, 

Betray  the  sacred  blood  that  flows 
So  freely  for  thy  name. 

And  never  fear  a  victor  foe  — 

Thy  children's  hearts  are  strong  and  high; 
Nor  mourn  too  fondly;  well  they  know 

On  deck  or  field  to  die. 

Nor  shall  thou  want  one  willing  breath. 
Though,  ever  smiling  round  the  brave, 

The  blue  sea  bear  us  on  to  death, 
The  green  were  one  wide  grave. 

HENRY  HOWARD  BHOWNELL. 


One  more  naval  action  remains  to  be  recorded. 
The  blockading  fleet  on  the  Carolina  coast  had 
been  constantly  threatened  by  the  Confederate 
ram  Albemarle.  Finally,  late  in  October,  1864, 
Lieutenant  William  B.  Cushing  undertook  to  de 
stroy  it.  On  the  night  of  October  27,  he  entered 
Plymouth  harbor  in  a  small  boat,  with  a  crew  of 
thirteen  men,  approached  the  ram,  and  despite 
a  hail  of  bullets,  exploded  a  torpedo  under  its 
bow,  sinking  it.  Cushing  and  most  of  his  men 
escaped  by  leaping  into  the  water. 


"ALBEMARLE"  CUSHING 
[October  27,  1864) 

JOY  in  rebel  Plymouth  town,  in  the  spring  of 

sixty-four. 

When  the  Albemarle  down  on  the  Yankee 
frigates  bore, 


536 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


With  the  saucy  Stars  and  Bars  at  her  main; 
When  she  smote  the  Southfield  dead,  and 

the  stout  Miami  quailed, 
And  the  fleet  in  terror  fled  when  their  mighty 

cannon  hailed 

Shot  and  shell  on  her  iron  back  in  vain, 
Till  she  slowly  steamed  away  to  her  berth  at 

Plymouth  pier, 
And  their  quick  eyes  saw  her  sway  with  her 

great  beak  out  of  gear, 
And  the  color  of  their  courage  rose  again. 

All  the  summer  lay  the  ram, 

Like  a  wounded  beast  at  bay, 
While  the  watchful  squadron  swam 

In  the  harbor  night  and  day. 
Till  the  broken  beak  was  mended,  and  the 

weary  vigil  ended, 
And  her  time  was  come  again  to  smite  and 


Must  they  die,  and  die  in  vain, 

Like  a  flock  of  shambled  sheep  ? 
Then  the  Yankee  grit  and  brain 

Must  be  dead  or  gone  to  sleep. 
And  our  sailors'  gallant  story  of  a  hundred 

years  of  glory 
Let  us  sell  for  a  song,  selling  cheap! 

Gushing,  scarce  a  man  in  years, 

But  a  sailor  thoroughbred, 
"With  a  dozen  volunteers 

I  will  sink  the  ram,"  he  said. 
"At  the  worst  't  is  only  dying."   And  the  old 

commander,  sighing, 

"  'T  is   to   save   the   fleet   and   flag  —  go 
ahead!" 


Bright  the  rebel  beacons  blazed 

On  the  river  left  and  right: 
Wide  awake  their  sentries  gazed 

Through  the  watches  of  the  night; 
Sharp  their  challenge  rang,  and  fiery  came  the 

rifle's  quick  inquiry, 
As  the  little  launch  swung  into  the  light. 

Listening  ears  afar  had  heard; 

Ready  hands  to  quarters  sprung. 
The  Albemarle  awoke  and  stirred, 
And  her  howitzers  gave  tongue; 
Til!  the  river  and  the  shore  echoed  back  the 

mighty  roar, 

When  the  portals  of  her  hundred-pounders 
swung. 


Will  the  swordfish  brave  the  whale, 

Doubly  girt  with  boom  and  chain? 
Face  the  shrapnel's  iron  hail? 
Dare  the  livid  leaden  rain  ? 
Ah!   that   shell   has   done   its   duty;   it   has 

spoiled  the  Yankee's  beauty; 
See  her  turn  and  fly  with  half  her  madmen 
slain. 

High  the  victor's  taunting  yell 
Rings  above  the  battle  roar, 
And  they  bid  her  mock  farewell 
As  she  seeks  the  farther  shore. 
Till  they  see  her  sudden  swinging,  crouching 

for  the  leap  and  springing 
Back  to  boom  and  chain  and  bloody  fray 
once  more. 

Now  the  Southern  captain,  stirred 

By  the  spirit  of  his  race, 
Stops  the  firing  with  a  word, 

Bids  them  yield,  and  otters  grace. 
Gushing,  laughing,  answers,  "No!  we  are  here 

to  fight!"  and  so 

Swings    the   dread    torpedo   spar    to    its 
place. 

Then  the  great  ship  shook  and  reeled, 

With  a  wounded,  gaping  side, 
But  her  steady  cannon  pealed 
Ere  she  settled  in  the  tide. 
And  the  Roanoke's  dull  flood  ran  full  red 

with  Yankee  blood. 

When  the  fighting  Albemarle  sunk  and 
died. 

Woe  in  rebel  Plymouth  town  when  the  Albe 
marle  fell. 
And  the  saucy  flag  went  down  that  had 

floated  long  and  well. 
Nevermore    from     her     stricken     deck     to 

wave. 
For  the  fallen  flag  a  sigh,  for  the  fallen  foe 

a  tear! 
Never  shall  their  glory  die  while  we  hold  our 

glory  dear, 

And  the  hero's  laurels  live  on  his  grave. 
Link   their   Cooke's   with   Cushing's   name; 

proudly  call  them  both  our  own ; 
Claim  their  valor  and  their  fame  for  America 

alone  — 

Joyful    mother     of    the   bravest    of    the 
brave ! 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


O   CAPTAIN!   MY   CAPTAIN 


537 


AT  THE  CANNON'S  MOUTII 

DESTRUCTION    OF    THE    RAM    ALBEMARLE    BY 
THE  TORPEDO-LAUNCH,  OCTOBER  27,  1864 

PALELY  intent,  he  urged  his  keel 

Full  on  the  guns,  and  touched  the  spring; 
Himself  involved  in  the  bolt  he  drove 
Timed  with  the  armed  hull's  shot  that  stove 
His  shallop  —  die  or  do! 
Into  the  flood  his  life  he  threw. 

Yet  lives  —  unscathed — a  breathing  thing 
To  marvel  at. 

He  has  his  fame; 
But  that  mad  dash  at  death,  how  name? 

Had  Earth  no  charm  to  stay  the  Boy 
From  the  martyr-passion  ?  Could  he  dare 

Disdain  the  Paradise  of  opening  joy 

Which    beckons    the    fresh   heart   every 
where  ? 


Life  has  more  lures  than  any  girl 
For   youth   and  strength;    puts    forth    a 
share 

Of  beauty,  hinting  of  yet  rarer  store; 

And  ever  with  unfathomable  eyes, 
Which  bafflingly  entice, 

Still  strangely  does  Adonis  draw. 

And  life  once  over,  who  shall  tell  the  rest? 

Life  is,  of  all  we  know,  God's  best. 

What  imps  these  eagles  then,  that  they 

Fling  disrespect  on  life  by  that  proud  way 

In  which  they  soar  above  our  lower  clay. 

Pretence    of    wonderment    and    doubt   un- 

blest: 

In  Cushing's  eager  deed  was  shown 
A  spirit  which  brave  poets  own  — 
That  scorn  of  life  which  earns  life's  crown; 
Earns,  but  not  always  wins ;  but  he  — 
The  star  ascended  in  his  nativity. 

HERMAN  MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER   XII 


THE    MARTYR    PRESIDENT 


In  November,  1864,  Abraham  Lincoln  was  re- 
elected  President,  carrying  twenty-two  out  of  the 
twenty-five  states  of  the  Union.  He  had  grown 
ever  dearer  to  the  hearts  of  the  American  people, 
and  the  country  had  come  to  trust  and  love  him. 

LINCOLN 

CHAINED  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state, 
His  spirit  armed  in  mail  of  rugged  mirth. 
Ever  above,  though  ever  near  to  earth. 
Yet  felt  his  heart  the  cruel  tongues  that  sate 

Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander,  wait 
Till  the  keen  lightnings  bring  the  awful  hour 
Wrhen  wounds  and  suffering  shall  give  them 

power. 
Most  was  he  like  to  Luther,  gay  and  great. 

Solemn  and  mirthful,  strong  of  heart  and  limb. 
Tender  and  simple  too;  he  was  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear. 

And,  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child. 
Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  Him 
Who  always  on  earth's   little  ones   hath 
smiled. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

On  the  evening  of  April  14,  1865,  the  Presi 
dent  attended  a  performance  of  "  Our  American 
Cousin,"  at  Ford's  Theatre,  at  Washington.  The 


play  was  drawing  to  a  close,  when  suddenly  the 
audience,  was  startled  by  a  pistol  shot,  and  an 
instant  later  saw  a  man  leap  from  the  President's 
box  to  the  stage.  The  man  was  John  Wilkes 
Booth,  an  actor.  He  had  shot  the  President 
through  the  head,  and  the  latter  died  next  day 
without  regaining  consciousness. 

O  CAPTAIN!   MY  CAPTAIN! 

[April  14,  1865] 

O  CAPTAIN!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is 

done. 
The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize 

we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people 

all  exulting, 
W  hile  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel 

grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red. 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies. 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the 

bells; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you 

the  bugle  trills, 


538 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


For  you  bouquets  and  ribboned  wreaths  — 

for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their 

eager  faces  turning: 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 

You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale 

and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no 

pulse  nor  will, 

The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voy 
age  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with 

object  won; 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells ! 

But  I  with  mournful  tread. 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT 

WERE  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreen  to  wreathe  a  hero's  wreath. 
That  he  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 
Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned  ? 
Could  there  on  our  unworthy  earth  be  found 

Naught  to  befit  his  worth  ? 

The  noblest  soul  of  all ! 
When  was  there  ever,  since  our  Washington, 
A  man  so  pure,  so  wise,  so  patient  —  one 
Who  walked  with  this  high  goal  alone  in  sight, 
To  speak,  to  do,  to  sanction  only  Right, 

Though  very  heaven  should  fall! 

Ah,  not  for  him  we  weep; 
What  honor  more  could  be  in  store  for  him  ? 
Who  would  have  had  him  linger  in  our  dim 
And  troublesome  world,  when  his  great  work 

was  done  — 
Who  would  not  leave  that  worn  and  weary  one 

Gladly  to  go  to  sleep? 

For  us  the  stroke  was  just; 
We  were  not  worthy  of  that  patient  heart; 
We  might  have  helped  him  more,  not  stood 

apart. 

And  coldly  criticised  his  works  and  ways  — 
Too  late  now,  all  too  late  —  our  little  praise 

Sounds  hollow  o'er  his  dust. 


Be  merciful,  O  our  God! 
Forgive  the  meanness  of  our  human  hearts, 
That  never,  till  a  noble  soul  departs, 
See  half  the  worth,  or  hear  the  angel's  wings 
Till  they  go  rustling  heavenward  as  he  springs 

Up  from  the  mounded  sod. 

Yet  what  a  deathless  crown 
Of  Northern  pine  and  Southern  orange-flower, 
For  victory,  and  the  land's  new  bridal-hour, 
Would  we  have  wreathed  for  that  beloved 

brow! 
Sadly  upon  his  sleeping  forehead  now 

We  lay  our  cypress  down. 

O  martyred  one,  farewell! 
Thou  hast  not  left  thy  people  quite  alone, 
Out  of  thy  beautiful  life  there  comes  a  tone 
Of  power,  of  love,  of  trust,  a  prophecy, 
Whose  fair  fulfilment  all  the  earth  shall  be, 

And  all  the  Future  tell. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

ASSASSINATED  GOOD  FRIDAY,  1865 

"  FORGIVE  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they 

do!" 

He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate,  — 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and 

true. 

Even  while  he  spoke,  the  slayer  lay  in  wait, 
And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's 

gate 

There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 
Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too 

late; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon 

drew, 
Have  murdered  Mercy.    Now  alone  shall 

stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she 

wore. 
Hark,   from   the  eastern   to   the  western 

strand, 

The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar: 
What  words  they  murmur,  —  Fetter  not 

her  hand ! 

So  let  it  smite,  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more! 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

The   assassin   escaped     into   Maryland,   where 
he  found  a  temporary  refuge,  but  the  country  was 


THE  DEAR   PRESIDENT 


539 


alarmed,  pursuers  were  close  upon  his  trail,  and  on 
April  25.  1865,  he  was  brought  to  bay  in  a  barn. 
He  refused  to  surrender  and  was  shot  by  a  sergeant 
named  Boston  Corbett. 


PARDON 

WILKES  BOOTH  —  APKIL  26,  1865 

PAINS  the  sharp  sentence  the  heart  in  whose 
wrath  it  was  uttered, 
Now  thou  art  cold; 

Vengeance,  the  headlong,  and  Justice,  with 
purpose  close  muttered, 
Ix)osen  their  hold. 

Death  brings  atonement ;  he  did  that  whereof 
ye  accuse  him,  — 
Murder  accurst; 

But  from  that  crisis  of  crime  in  which  Satan 
did  lose  him, 

Suffered  the  worst. 

Harshly  the  red  dawn  arose  on  a  deed  of  his 
doing. 

Never  to  mend; 

But  harsher  days  he  wore  out  in  the  bitter 
pursuing 
And  the  wild  end. 

So  lift  the  pale  flag  of  truce,  wrap  those  mys 
teries  round  him, 
In  whose  avail 

Madness  that  moved,  and  the  swift  retribution 
that  found  him. 
Falter  and  fail. 

So  the  soft  purples  that  quiet  the  heavens  with 
mourning. 

Willing  to  fall. 

Lend   him   one   fold,  his   illustrious   victim 
adorning 

With  wider  pall. 

Back  to  the  cross,  where  the  Saviour  uplifted 
in  dying 

Bade  all  souls  live. 

Turns  the  reft  bosom  of  Nature,  his  mother, 
low  sighing. 
Greatest,  forgive! 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

On  Wednesday,  April  19,  1865,  a  simple  funeral 
service  was  held  over  the  body  of  Lincoln  at  the 
White  House,  and  for  two  days  thereafter  the 
body  lay  in  state  in  the  rotunda  of  the  Capitol. 


THE  DEAR  PRESIDENT 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  the  Dear  President, 
Lay  in  the  Round  Hall  at  the  Capitol, 
And  there  the  people  came  to  look  their  last. 

There  came  the  widow,  weeded  for  her  mate ; 
There  came  the  mother,  sorrowing  for  her 

son; 
There  came  the  orphan,  moaning  for  its  sire. 

There  came  the  soldier,  bearing  home  his 

wound ; 
There  came  the  slave,  who  felt  his  broken 

chain ; 
There  came  the  mourners  of  a  blacken'd 

Land. 

Through   the  dark  April  day,   a   ceaseless 

throng, 

They  pass'd  the  coffin,  saw  the  sleeping  face, 
And,  blessing  it,  in  silence  moved  away. 

And  one,  a  poet,  spoke  within  his  heart: 
"It  harm'd  him  not  to  praise  him  when  alive, 
And  me  it  cannot  harm  to  praise  him  dead. 

"Too  oft  the  muse  has  blush 'd  to  speak  of 

men  — 
No  muse  shall  blush  to  speak  her  best  of 

him, 
And  still  to  speak  her  best  of  him  is  dumb. 

"O  lofty  wisdom's  low  simplicity! 

O  awful  tenderness  of  noted  power!  — 

No  man  e'er  held  so  much  of  power  so  meek. 

"He  was  the  husband  of  the  husbandless, 
He  was  the  father  of  the  fatherless: 
Within  his  heart  he  weigh'd  the  common 
woe. 

"His  call  was  like  a  father's  to  his  sons! 
As  to  a  father's  voice,  they,  hearing,  came  — 
Eager  to  offer,  strive,  and  bear,  and  die. 

"The  mild  bond-breaker,  servant  of  his  Lord, 
He  took  the  sword,  but  in  the  name  of  Peace, 
And  touched  the  fetter,  and  the  bound  was 
free. 

"Oh,  place  him  not  among  the  historic  kings, 
Strong,   barbarous  chiefs  and   bloody  con 
querors, 
But  with  the  Great  and  pure  Republicans: 


540 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"Those  who  have  been  unselfish,  wise,  and 

good, 

Bringers  of  Light  and  Pilots  in  the  dark. 
Bearers  of  Crosses,  Servants  of  the  World. 

"And  always,  in  his  Land  of  birth  and  death, 
Be  his  fond  name  —  warm'd  in  the  people's 

hearts  — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President." 
JOHN  JAMES  PIATT. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

OH,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 
Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 

Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 
The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand. 
Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 

And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 
That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done;  the  bond  are  free: 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


Then  the  funeral  train  started  for  Lincoln's  home 
at  Springfield,  111.,  stopping  at  Philadelphia,  New 
York,  and  other  towns  along  the  route,  great  crowds 
everywhere  gathering  to  honor  the  dead  President. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  i 

NOT  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls, 
In  battle,  where  his  Country  calls. 

Beyond  the  struggling  lines 

That  push  his  dread  designs 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead : 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 

Of  his  determined  men. 

Who  must  be  victors  then. 

1  From  Poetical  Writings  of  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard;  copyright  1880,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 

The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords. 

W7ith  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 
Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 
Do  we  to-day  deplore 
The  Man  that  is  no  more. 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope. 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope, 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits  —  what  is  to  come ! 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth, 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, 
The  roof-tree  fallen,  all 
That  could  affright,  appall! 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 
Each  laurelled  Caesar's  brow. 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament, 

A  Man  without  a  precedent. 
Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 
His  work,  and  perish,  too. 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain, 

Must  yet  be  done  again: 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  jea 

In  awful  anarchy: 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man!). 

Not  then;  but  when,  by  measures  meet 

By  victory,  and  by  defeat, 

By  courage,  patience,  skill, 
The  people's  fixed,  "We  wiliJ" 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


54* 


Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead, 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head, 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,  O  how  he  fell! 

The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape, 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape, 

The  wife,  the  widow's  scream,  — 

It  is  a  hideous  Dream! 

A  dream  ?   What  means  this  pageant,  then  ? 
These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 

But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 

The  flags  half-mast  that  late  so  high 
Flaunted  at  each  new  victory? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 

But  bloody  looks  the  red !) 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles, 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles  ? 

(No  house  too  poor  to  show 

The  nation's  badge  of  woe.) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom. 
The  rolling  of  the  drums, 
The  dreadful  car  that  comes  ? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot, 
Thy  country's  Father  slain 
By  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain ! 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed  —  may  it  now ! 

(God  lets  bad  instruments 

Produce  the  best  events.) 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was:  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 

Was  never  known  before. 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 

The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours, 
Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, 
The  Man  to  guide  the  Child. 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit) 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place; 

With  such  a  homely  face, 


Such  rustic  manners,  speech  uncouth 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth), 
Untried,  untrained  to  bear 
The  more  than  kingly  care. 

Ah !  And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew, 

The  People,  of  whom  he  was  one: 

No  gentleman,  like  Washington 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  "room, 
To  have  him  in  their  tomb!). 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands. 
Who  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands, 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do. 

One  of  the  People!  born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome; 

To  share  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then), 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men: 

Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor, 

But  now  they  will  endure! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant  still; 

Who  since  his  work  was  good 

Would  do  it  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without; 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault; 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loath, 
And,  loving  both  sides,  angered  both: 
Was  —  not  like  Justice,  blind, 
But  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero  this  of  Roman  mould, 
Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old: 

Perhaps  he  was  not  great, 

But  he  preserved  the  State! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few! 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage! 


542 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Peace!   Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark,  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar, 

And  see,  the  awful  car! 

Peace!   Let  the  sad  procession  go. 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow. 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 
To  honor  all  they  can 
The  dust  of  that  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain. 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars. 
Salute  him  once  again. 
Your  late  commander  —  slain ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall. 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge  —  the  plough. 

(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 

Nor  would  we  have  it  so, 

She  must  direct  the  blow.) 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race. 

Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
Know  ye  who  cometh  ?   He 
Who  hath  declared  ye  free. 

Bow  while  the  body  passes  —  nay, 
Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray! 
Weep,  weep  —  I  would  ye  might  — 
Your  poor  black  faces  white! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 

Of  blue  and  white  and  red, 

To  strew  before  the  dead. 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home; 


The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 
There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid. 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 

With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year. 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  Paternal  Soul. 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


During  those  twenty  days,  the  one  thought 
uppermost  in  men's  minds  was  the  martyred 
President.  The  desire  for  vengeance  alternated 
with  grief.  It  was  generally  believed  that  the 
conspiracy  had  been  concocted  by  the  Confederate 
authorities,  and  magnanimity  toward  a  beaten 
foe  gave  place  to  hatred. 


PARRICIDE 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN — APRIL  14,  1865 

O'ER  the  warrior  gauntlet  grim 
Late  the  silken  glove  we  drew. 
Bade  the  watch-fires  slacken  dim 
In  the  dawn's  auspicious  hue. 

Stayed  the  armed  heel; 

Stilled  the  clanging  steel; 
Joys  unwonted  thrilled  the  silence  through. 

Glad  drew  near  the  Easter  tide; 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  anew 
Turned  to  Him  who  spotless  died 
For  the  peace  that  none  shall  rue. 

Out  of  mortal  pain 

This  abiding  strain 
Issued:  "Peace,  my  peace,  I  give  to  you." 

Musing  o'er  the  silent  strings, 
By  their  apathy  opprest. 
Waiting  for  the  spirit  wings, 
To  be  touched  and  soul-possessed, 

"I  am  dull,"  I  said: 

"Treason  is  not  dead; 
Still  in  ambush  lurks  that  shivering  guest." 

Then  a  woman's  shriek  of  fear 
Smote  us  in  its  arrowy  flight; 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 


543 


And  a  wonder  wild  and  drear 
Did  the  hearts  of  men  unite. 

Has  the  seed  of  crime 

Reached  its  flowering-time, 
That  it  shoots  to  this  audacious  height? 

Then,  as  frosts  the  landscape  change, 
Stiffening  from  the  summer's  glow, 
Grew  the  jocund  faces  strange. 
Lay  the  loftiest  emblem  low: 

Kings  are  of  the  past, 

Suffered  still  to  last; 
These  twin  crowns  the  present  did  bestow. 

Fair  assassin,  murder  white. 
With  thy  serpent  speed  avoid 
Each  unsullied  household  light, 
Every  conscience  unalloyed. 

Neither  heart  nor  home 

Where  good  angels  come 
Suffer  thee  in  nearness  to  abide. 

Slanderer  of  the  gracious  brow, 
The  untiring  blood  of  youth, 
Servant  of  an  evil  now, 
Of  a  crime  that  beggars  ruth, 

Treason  was  thy  dam, 

Wolfling,  when  the  Lamb, 
The  Anointed,  met  thy  venomed  tooth. 

With  the  righteous  did  he  fall. 
With  the  sainted  doth  he  lie; 
W;hile  the  gibbet's  vultures  call 
Thee,  that,  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Disavowed  of  both 

In  their  Godward  troth. 
Thou    mayst   make  thy   poor  amend,   and 
die. 

If  it  were  my  latest  breath. 
Doomed  his  bloody  end  to  share, 
I  would  brand  thee  with  his  death 
As  a  deed  beyond  despair. 

Since  the  Christ  was  lost 

For  a  felon's  cost, 

None    like   thee   of    vengeance  should    be 
ware. 

Leave  the  murderer,  noble  song, 
Helpless  in  the  toils  of  fate: 
To  the  just  thy  meeds  belong, 
To  the  martyr,  to  the  state. 

When  the  storm  beats  loud 

Over  sail  and  shroud, 
Tunefully  the  seaman  cheers  his  mate. 


Never  tempest  lashed  the  wave 
But  to  leave  it  fresher  calm; 
Never  weapon  scarred  the  brave 
But  their  blood  did  purchase  balm. 

God  hath  writ  on  high 

Such  a  victory 
As  uplifts  the  nation  with  its  psalm. 

Honor  to  the  heart  of  love, 
Honor  to  the  peaceful  will. 
Slow  to  threaten,  strong  to  move, 
Swift  to  render  good  for  ill! 

Glory  crowns  his  end, 

And  the  captive's  friend 
From  his  ashes  makes  us  freemen  still. 
JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


The  feeling  throughout  the  South  was  one  of 
sorrow  and  indignation.  In  England,  too,  the 
act  was  condemned,  and  London  Punch,  which 
had  delighted  in  caricaturing  the  President,  pub 
lished  a  full-page  cartoon,  depicting  itself  in  the 
act  of  laying  a  wreath  upon  his  bier  —  a  cartoon 
which  was  followed  by  some  spirited  verses  from 
Punch's  editor,  Tom  Taylor,  confessing  that  the 
English  attitude  toward  Lincoln  and  the  North 
had  been  a  mistaken  one. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's 

bier, 
You,  who,  with  mocking  pencil,  wont  to 

trace. 

Broad  for  the  self-complaisant  British  sneer, 
His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed 
face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bris 
tling  hair, 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please; 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's 

laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way  were 

plain ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's  pain,  — 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet. 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you? 


544 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 
To  lame  my  jK?ncil,  and  confute  my  pen; 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  Princes  peer, 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose, 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem 

more  true, 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows ; 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful,  he  could  be: 
How,  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill,  the  same; 

Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work  —  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand  — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there 's  a  task  to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good 
grace  command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden 

grow. 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  His 

will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 
Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and 
ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting 
mights,  — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 
The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe. 

The  rapid,  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 
The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's 
tracks, 

The  ambushed   Indian,   and   the   prowling 

bear,  — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his  youth 

to  train: 
Rough  culture  —  but  such  trees  large  fruit 

may  bear, 

If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and 
grain. 


So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 
And   lived   to   do  it:   four   long-suffering 

years' 

Ill-fate,  ill-feeling,  ill-report,  lived  through, 
And   then   he  heard  the  hisses  change  to 
cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise. 
And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering 

mood; 
Till,   as  he  came   on    light,   from   darkling 

days. 

And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where 
he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him. 
Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger 

prest  — 
And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were 

dim, 

Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid 
to  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will 
to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to 

sea. 

Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame. 
Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat 

high! 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came! 

A  deed  accurst!    Strokes  have  been  struck 

before 

By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 
If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore: 
But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  dark 
ly  out, 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 
Whate'er  its  grounds,   stoutly  and   nobly 

striven, 
And  with   the  martyr's  crown,  crownest  a 

life 

With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 
TOM  TAYLOR. 


JEFFERSON   DAVIS 


545 


CHAPTER   XIII 


PEACE 


The  surrender  of  Lee  at  Appomattox  virtually 
ended  the  war.  The  only  considerable  Confederate 
force  left  in  the  field  was  that  under  command  of 
Johnston,  and  it  surrendered  to  Sherman  on  April 
26,  1865. 

"STACK   ARMS!" 

"STACK  ARMS!"  I've  gladly  heard  the  cry 

When,  weary  with  the  dusty  tread 
Of  marching  troops,  as  night  drew  nigh, 

I  sank  upon  my  soldier  bed. 
And  calmly  slept;  the  starry  dome 

Of  heaven's  blue  arch  my  canopy, 
And  mingled  with  my  dreams  of  home 

The  thoughts  of  Peace  and  Liberty. 

"Slack  Arms!"  I've  heard  it  when  the  shout 

Exulting  ran  along  our  line, 
Of  foes  hurled  back  in  bloody  rout. 

Captured,  dispersed;  its  tones  divine 
Then  came  to  mine  enraptured  ear, 

Guerdon  of  duty  nobly  done. 
And  glistened  on  my  cheek  the  tear 

Of  grateful  joy  for  victory  won. 

"Stack  Army!"    In  faltering  accents,  slow 

And  sad,  it  creeps  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
A  broken,  murmuring  wail  of  woe, 

From  manly  hearts  by  anguish  wrung. 
Like  victims  of  a  midnight  dream, 

We  move,  we  know  not  how  nor  why; 
For  life  and  hope  like  phantoms  seem, 

And  it  would  be  relief  —  to  die ! 

JOSEPH  BLYNTH  ALSTON. 


Jefferson  Davis,  who  had  fled  from  Richmond, 
was  captured  on  May  11,  1865,  near  the  Ocmulgee 
River,  in  Georgia,  and  on  May  26,  when  Kirby 
Smith  formally  surrendered,  the  last  vestige  of 
armed  resistance  to  the  national  government  dis 
appeared.  Davis  was  confined  at  Fortress  Mon 
roe  until  1868,  the  South,  of  course,  considering 
him  a  martyr. 

JEFFERSON    DAVIS 

"Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
!       Are  all  with  thee,  are  all  with  thee." 

LONGFELLOW. 

CALM  martyr  of  a  noble  cause, 
Upon  thy  form  in  vain 


The  Dungeon  shuts  its  cankered  jaws, 
And  clasps  its  cankered  chain; 

For  thy  free  spirit  walks  abroad, 
And  every  pulse  is  stirred 

With  the  old  deathless  glory  thrill, 
Whene'er  thy  name  is  heard. 

The  same  that  lit  each  Grecian  eye, 

Whene'er  it  rested  on 
The  wild  pass  of  Thermopylae  — 

The  plain  of  Marathon; 
And  made  the  Roman's  ancient  blood 

Bound  fiercely  as  he  told, 
'How  well  Horatio  kept  the  bridge, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old." 

The  same  that  makes  the  Switzer's  heart 

With  silent  rapture  swell. 
When  in  each  Alpine  height  he  sees 

A  monument  to  Tell: 
The  same  that  kindles  Irish  veins 

When  Emmet's  name  is  told; 
What  Bruce  to  Caledonia  is, 

Kosciusko  to  the  Pole  — 

Art  thou  to  us !  —  thy  deathless  fame, 

With  Washington  entwined, 
Forever  in  each  Southern  heart 

Is  hallowed  and  enshrined ;  — 
And  though  the  tyrant  give  thy  form 

To  shameful  death  —  't  were  vain; 
It  would  but  shed  a  splendor  round 

The  gibbet  and  the  chain. 

Only  less  sacred  in  our  eyes, 

Thus  blest  and  purified, 
Than  the  dear  cross  on  which  our  Lord 

Was  shamed  and  crucified. 
Would  the  vile  gallows  tree  become, 

And  through  all  ages  shine, 
Linked  with  the  glory  of  thy  name, 

A  relic  and  a  shrine! 

WALKER  MERIWETHER  BELL. 


It  was  for  the  South  a  sad  awakening  from 
the  dream  which  had  been  so  entrancing  and  which 
seemed  so  certain  to  come  true.  Their  land  was 
ravaged,  their  people  were  ruined,  their  best  and 
bravest  dead. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


IN   THE    LAND   WHERE   WE 
WERE   DREAMING 

FAIR  were  our  visions !  Oh,  they  were  as  grand 
As  ever  floated  out  of  faerie  land ; 
Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 
But  God-like  children,  whom  nor  death 
Nor  threat  nor  danger  drove  from  honor's 

path, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Proud  were  our  men,  as  pride  of  birth  could 

render; 

As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender; 
And  when  they  spoke,  their  voices  did  thrill 
Until  at  eve  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird,  were  mute  and 

still, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory 
Than  ever  tracked  tradition's  ancient  story; 
And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 
Of  principles  for  which  had  bled 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and 
free. 

Both  were  content;  and  so  God  let  them  be; 
Till  envy  coveted  our  land. 
And  those  fair  6elds  our  valor  won; 

But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Our  sleep  grew  troubled  and  our  dreams  grew 

wild  — 
Red    meteors    flashed    across  our  heaven's 

field; 

Crimson  the  moon ;  between  the  Twins 
Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Down  from  her  sun-lit  heights  smiled  Liberty 
And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory  — 
The  world  approved,  and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their 

prayer 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours  — 
We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great 
powers ; 


We  talked  in  sleep  of  Rank,  Commission, 
Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt  but  met  deri 
sion, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  on  high :  a  banner  there  was  seen. 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its 

sheen  — 

Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  veterans  swearing  by  their  scars 
Vowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred 

wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

A  hero  came  amongst  us  as  we  slept ; 

At  first  he  lowly  knelt  —  then  rose  and  wept; 
Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears 
He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars; 

Then  bowed  farewell  and  walked  beyond  the 

stars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  again :  another  figure  still 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will  — 
Full  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway  —  of  strength  a 

tower. 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder 

God, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he 

stood, 

Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So,  "  Richmond  's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  hero  —  God-like  Lee, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls  — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  the  infant  falls  — 
As  starts  the  traveller  when  around 
His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound  — 
So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe !  woe  is  me !  the  startled  mother  cried  — 
While  we  have  slept  our  noble  sons  have 

died! 

Woe !  woe  is  me !  how  strange  and  sad 
That  all  our  glorious  vision  's  fled, 
And  left  us  nothing  real  but  the  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

DANIEL  B.  LUCAS. 


PEACE 


547 


ACCEPTATION 

i 

WE  do  accept  thee,  heavenly  Peace! 
Albeit  thou  comest  in  a  guise 
Unlocked  for  —  undesired,  our  eyes 
Welcome  through  tears  the  sweet  release 
From  war,  and  woe,  and  want,  —  surcease, 
For  which  we  bless  thee,  blessed  Peace! 


We  lift  our  foreheads  from  the  dust; 
And  as  we  meet  thy  brow's  clear  calm. 
There  falls  a  freshening  sense  of  balm 
Upon  our  spirits.    Fear  —  distrust  — 
The  hopeless  present  on  us  thrust  — 
We'll  meet  them  as  we  can,  and  must. 


War  has  not  wholly  wrecked  us:  still 

Strong  hands,  brave  hearts,  high  souls  are 

ours  — 
Proud  consciousness  of  quenchless  powers — 

A  Past  whose  memory  makes  us  thrill  — 

Futures  uncharactered,  to  fill 

With  heroisms  —  if  we  will. 

IV 

Then  courage,  brothers !  — Though  each  breast 
Feel  oft  the  rankling  thorn,  despair, 
That  failure  plants  so  sharply  there  — 
No  pain,  no  pang  shall  be  confest: 
We'll  work  and  watch  the  brightening  west, 
And  leave  to  God  and  Heaven  the  rest. 

MARGARET  JUNK  IN  PRESTON. 


THE   CONQUERED   BANNER 

FURL  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it  —  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 

Furl  it,  hide  it  —  let  it  rest! 

Take  that  Banner  down !  't  is  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered, 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it, 


Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh ! 

Furl  that  Banner  —  furl  it  sadly; 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  — 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
And  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom,  or  their  grave! 

Furl  it!  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing. 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe; 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it  — 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
But,  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so! 

Furl  that  Banner!   True, 't is  gory, 
Yet  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory. 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must! 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly; 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead; 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 

ABRAM  J.  RYAN. 


At  the  North,  too.  Peace  was  welcome.  The 
North,  while  suffering  less  poignantly  than  the 
South,  had  drunk  deeply  of  the  bitter  cup.  It  had 
lost  over  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men. 

PEACE 

DAYBREAK  upon  the  hills! 
Slowly,  behind  the  midnight  murk  and  trail 
Of  the  long  storm,  light  brightens,  pure  and 
pale, 

And  the  horizon  fills. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Not  bearing  swift  release,  — 
Not  with  quick  feet  of  triumph,  but  with  tread 
August  and  solemn,  following  her  dead, 

Cometh,  at  last,  our  Peace. 

Over  thick  graves  grown  green, 
Over  pale  bones  that  graveless  lie  and  bleach, 
Over  torn  human  hearts  her  path  doth  reach. 

And  Heaven's  dear  pity  lean. 

O  angel  sweet  and  grand ! 
White-footed,  from  beside  the  throne  of  God, 
Thou  movest,  with  the  palm  and  olive-rod, 

And  day  bespreads  the  land! 

His  Day  we  waited  for! 
With  faces  to  the  East,  we  prayed  and  fought; 
And  a  faint  music  of  the  dawning  caught, 

All  through  the  sounds  of  War. 

Our  souls  are  still  with  praise! 
It  is  the  dawning;  there  is  work  to  do: 
When  we  have  borne  the  long  hours'  burden 
through, 

Then  we  will  paeans  raise. 

God  give  us,  with  the  time, 
His  strength  for  His  large  purpose  to  the 

world ! 
To  bear  before  Him,  in  its  face  unfurled, 

His  gonfalon  sublime! 

Ay,  we  are  strong!    Both  sides 
The  misty  river  stretch  His  army's  wings: 
Heavenward,  with  glorious  wheel,  one  flank 
He  flings; 

And  one  front  still  abides! 

Strongest  where  most  bereft! 
His  great  ones  He  doth  call  to  more  command. 
For  whom  He  hath  prepared  it,  they  shall 

stand 
On  the  Right  Hand  and  Left! 

ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 


PEACE 

O  LAND,  of  every  land  the  best  — 
O  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase; 

Now  in  your  whitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  Peace: 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom, 
And  let  it  float  undimmed  above, 


Till  over  all  our  vales  shall  bloom 
The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 

On  mountain  high,  in  valley  low, 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  burn; 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  pathway  than  the  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride, 
Your  veterans  from  the  war-path's  track; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  untried; 
You  bring  them  men  and  heroes  back! 

And  shed  no  tear,  though  think  you  must 
With  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band ; 

Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 
Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though  by  the  places  where  they  fell, 
The  places  that  are  sacred  ground, 

Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 
Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free 
And  gave  her  traitors  fitting  doom, 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy, 
Baffled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 

Not  there,  but  risen,  redeemed,  they  go 
Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  with  flow 
ers; 

They  fought  to  give  us  Peace  and  lo! 
They  gained  a  better  Peace  than  ours. 
PHCEBE  CART. 


On  May  24, 1 865,  the  united  armies  of  Grant  and 
Sherman,  two  hundred  thousand  strong,  were  re 
viewed  at  Washington  by  President  Johnson  and 
his  cabinet. 

A    SECOND   REVIEW  OF  THE 
GRAND   ARMY 

[May  24,  1 865] 

I  READ  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 
In  Washington's  chiefest  avenue,  — 
Two  hundred  thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number,  — 
Till  1  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 
Would  only  my  verse  encumber,  — 


WHEN   JOHNNY   COMES   MARCHING   HOME 


549 


Till  I  fell  in  a  revery,  sad  and  sweet, 
And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo!  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.    On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico,  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged,  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and 

bare; 

No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to 
bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread. 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning: 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled. 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires: 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp. 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation: 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead,  —  the 

men 

Who  perished  in  fever-swamp  and  fen. 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison-pen; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight. 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright: 
1  thought  —  perhaps  't  was  the  pale  moon 
light  - 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers! 


And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished ; 
No  mark  —  save  the  bare  uncovered  hef  \ 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves  —  for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array; 
So  all  night  long,  till  the  morning  gray, 
I  watch 'd  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder,  — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come;  and  I  spake  —  and  lo!  that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 

BRET  HAETE. 


The  work  of  disbandment  began  at  once,  and 
the  troops  were  sent  home  as  rapidly  as  possible; 
they  laid  by  the  musket,  took  up  the  spade  or 
hammer,  and  returned  once  more  to  the  occupa 
tions  of  peace. 

WHEN   JOHNNY  COMES    MARCH 
ING  HOME 

WHEN  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again, 

Hurrah !  hurrah ! 
We'll  give  him  a  hearty  welcome  then. 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

The  men  will  cheer,  the  boys  will  shout, 
The  ladies,  they  will  all  turn  out, 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

The  old  church-bell  will  peal  with  joy, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
To  welcome  home  our  darling  boy, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
The  village  lads  and  lasses  say. 
With  roses  they  will  strew  the  way; 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

Get  ready  for  the  jubilee, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
We'll  give  the  hero  three  times  three. 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
The  laurel-wreath  is  ready  now 
To  place  upon  his  loyal  brow. 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay. 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 


55° 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Let  love  and  friendship  on  that  day, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 
Their  choicest  treasures  then  display, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

And  let  each  one  perform  some  part, 
To  fill  with  joy  the  warrior's  heart; 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 
PATRICK  SARSFIELD  GILMORE. 


DRIVING   HOME   THE   COWS 

OUT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass, 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow-bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy!  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go: 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow- 
swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 
And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp, 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying 

feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cold  and  late. 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was 

done; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one,  — 


Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass,  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue; 

And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are 

dumb; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies, 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 
KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 


On  July  21,  1865,  services  were  held  at  Cam 
bridge,  Mass.,  in  commemoration  of  the  three 
hundredth  anniversary  of  Harvard  College.  Ad 
dresses  were  made  by  General  Meade  and  Gen 
eral  Devens,  and  an  ode  written  for  the  occasion 
was  read  by  James  Russell  Lowell.  This  ode, 
perhaps  the  greatest  ever  delivered  in  America, 
forms  a  fitting  close  to  the  history  of  the  Civil 
War. 


ODE   RECITED   AT  THE   HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION 

[July  21,  1865J 


WEAK-WINGED  is  song. 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light: 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler 

verse, 

Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and 

drum, 

And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire : 
Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong, 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common 

grave 
Of  the  unventurous  throng. 


ODE  RECITED   AT   THE  HARVARD   COMMEMORATION    551 


To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome. 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it 
good: 

No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many 
waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them 

and  dilates: 

Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all! 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood. 
That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls 
best. 

Into  War's  tumult  rude; 
But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle 

stood 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 
The  VERITAS  that  lurks  beneath 
The  letter's  unprolific  sheath. 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living. 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 
One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the 
giving. 


Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil. 
With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind 

her. 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her. 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness: 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are 

true, 

And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of.  dare  to  do; 
They  followed  her  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 


Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round 

her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed. 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them 
in  death. 

IV 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  live  for  here  that  shall  out 
live  us? 

Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's 

fickle  moon  ? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call 

dross, 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving. 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen 

wires, 

After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave. 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 
But  stay !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate. 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate. 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our  fate- 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer. 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim   its   birthright   with   the   hosts  of 

heaven ; 

A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthy  dulnesswith  the  beams  of  stars 

And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the 

Day; 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we,       * 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 


552 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  f>ermanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 
Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still   beaconing   from   the  heights  of  unde- 
generate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads  ? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns   with   what  deadly  purpose  it  was 

fraught, 

And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men : 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my 

praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved  ?   Prove  now  thy 

truth; 

I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate!" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds. 
Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's 

solid  earth, 

Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  .from  within  with  all  the  strength   he 
needs. 


Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 

burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored 

urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote: 
For  him   her  Old-World  moulds  aside  she 

threw, 

And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and 

true 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who   loved   his  charge,  but  never   loved  to 

lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to 

be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth. 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple- tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again 

and  thrust. 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 

blind; 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest 
stars, 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us 

face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  Condescends  to  victory 


ODE   RECITED   AT  THE   HARVARD    COMMEMORATION    553 


<>uch  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a 

tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The    kindly-earnest,    brave,    foreseeing 

man, 

Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  6rst  Amer- 


Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  discern 

Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole. 

Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 

Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier 

brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,  Country,  this  ethereal  mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 
Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap. 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it 

asks, 

Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 
A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  inwreathe 
Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 
When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine 

them,  sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites 

to  pay. 

And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better 
way? 

VIII 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 

That    flows    with    Freedom's   honey  and 

milk; 

But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand. 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 


We  welcome  back    our  bravest  and  our 

best;  — 

Ah  me !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest. 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 

But  the  sad  strings  complain, 

And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  psean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf 

wraps, 

Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 

I  with  uncovered  head 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 

Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say  not  so ! 
'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave; 
No  ban  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack ; 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration ; 

They  come  transfigured  back. 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways. 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation ! 

IX 

But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the  grave  ? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle  wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads 
of  song  ? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago. 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious  gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth  blow: 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange. 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 


534 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Where  the  deep-bolted  stars  themselves  still 

shift  and  range! 

Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pre 
tence? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit. 

The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe; 
Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest 
sow. 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence. 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  below, 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of 

sods, 

Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as  gods  ? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do? 
That  were  not  fruitless:  but  the  Soul  re 
sents 

Such  short-lived  service,  as  if  blind  events 
Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so  en 
dure; 

She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents ; 
Whate'er    she  touches  doth    her    nature 

share ; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 

Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind. 
Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the  wind. 
And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  every 
where 

By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare: 
Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice. 
So   radiant   now   through   proudly-hidden 

tears, 

Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With   thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous 

years ; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all  men 

peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height. 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink,  but 

grow  more  bright. 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 
Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining  shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact  base, 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty  reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race? 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier! 
Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle 

loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't. 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods 

crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets. 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic 

wreath 

Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation 

sets 

Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
With    vain    resentments    and    more   vain 
regrets ! 

XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride. 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude. 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed. 

To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our 
brave. 

Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head ! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring. 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation : 
Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation ! 
'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 

A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men. 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all. 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them. 

Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower. 

Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 


ODE  RECITED   AT  THE  HARVARD   COMMEMORATION    555 


Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle- 
hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is  her 

dower ! 

How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
Jf  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and 

waves ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking 

steeple ! 
Banners,   adance  with   triumph,  bend  your 

staves ! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak, 
Let    beacon-fire    to    answering    beacon 

speak, 

Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 
Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe 

braver : 
"Be  proud!  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have 

helped  to  save  her! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the 

poor, 

She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  man 
kind  ! 
The   fire    is    dreadful   in  her  eyes    no 

more; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth 

unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to 

spin. 
And    bids    her    navies,    that    so    lately 

hurled 

Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thun 
ders  in, 


Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the 

unharmful  shore. 
No  challenge  sends    she   to   the  elder 

world. 
That  looked  askance  and  hated ;  a  light 

scorn 
Plays  o'er  her   mouth,   as   round    her 

mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits 

the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject 


XII 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found 

release ! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His 

ways. 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought 

thy  peace! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised 

brow. 

O  Beautiful!  my  Country!  ours  once  more! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips, 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare? 
What  were  our  lives  without  thee? 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee  ? 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 
We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare! 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


PART  V 

"ftiE  PERIOD   OF  EXPANSION 


THE  EAGLE'S  SONG 

THE  lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub 
Was  seized  by  an  eagle  and  carried  up, 
And  homed  for  a  while  in  an  eagle's  nest, 
And  slept  for  a  while  on  an  eagle's  breast; 
And  the  eagle  taught  it  the  eagle's  song: 
'To  be  stanch,  and  valiant,  and  free,  and  strong J5* 

The  lion  whelp  sprang  from  the  eyrie  nest, 
From  the  lofty  crag  where  the  queen  birds  rest; 
He  fought  the  King  on  the  spreading  plain, 
And  drove  him  back  o'er  the  foaming  main. 
He  held  the  land  as  a  thrifty  chief, 
And  reared  his  cattle,  and  reaped  his  sheaf 
Nor  sought  the  help  of  a  foreign  ha  id 
Yet  welcomed  all  to  his  own  free  landl 

Two  were  the  sons  that  the  country  bore 
To  the  Northern  lakes  and  the  Southern  shore; 
And  Chivalry  dwelt  with  the  Southern  son, 
And  Industry  lived  with  the  Northern  one. 
Tears  for  the  time  when  they  broke  and  fought ! 
Tears  was  the  price  of  the  union  wrought! 
And  the  land  was  red  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Where  brother  for  brother  had  swelled  the  flood! 

And  now  that  the  two  are  one  again, 
Behold  on  their  shield  the  word  "Refrain!" 
And  the  lion  cubs  twain  sing  the  eagle's  song: 
'To  be  stanch,  and  valiant,  and  free,  and  strong!" 
For  the  eagle's  beak,  and  the  lion's  paw, 
And  the  lion's  fangs,  and  the  eagle's  claw, 
And  the  eagle's  swoop,  and  the  lion's  might, 
And  the  lion's  leap,  and  the  eagle's  sight, 
Shall  guard  the  flag  with  the  word  "Refrain!" 
Now  that  the  two  are  one  again ! 

RICHAED  MANSFIELD. 


CHAPTER   I 


RECONSTRUCTION    AND   AFTER 


The  war  was  over,  but  three  great  questions 
remained  to  be  settled.  How  were  the  people 
of  the  South  to  be  regarded?  How  was  the  Union 
to  be  reconstructed?  What  was  to  be  done  with 
the  three  millions  of  negroes  who  had  been  given 
their  freedom?  These  were  the  questions  which 
came  before  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress. 

TO  THE  THIRTY-NINTH 
CONGRESS 

O  PEOPLE-CHOSEN  !  a  re  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  His  will  and  speak  His  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  He,  the  God  of  all  the  earth! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows-stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 

Say  to  the  pardon-seekers:  Keep 

Your  manhood,  bend  no  suppliant  knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 

What  words  can  drown  that  bitter  cry? 
What  tears  wash  out  the  stain  of  death  ? 
What  oaths  confirm  your  broken  faith  ? 

From  you  alone  the  guaranty 

Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim; 
We  urge  no  conqueror's  terras  of  shame. 

Alas!  no  victor's  pride  is  ours; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.   Cancel  all 
By  one  brave,  generous  action :  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just! 


Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 
Take  hands  from  off  the  negro's  throat, 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 

Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands. 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will; 

Be  in  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 
As  ye  have  proved  yourselves  in  wrong. 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 

Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past. 
Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and  let 
AH  memories  soften  to  regret. 

Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all,  — 

And  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch  hands,  and  bid  ye  welcome  home! 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


Few  men  could  have  been  worse  fitted  for  the 
delicate  task  of  reconstruction  than  Andrew 
Johnson.  But  even  his  policy,  narrow  as  it  was, 
was  not  narrow  enough  to  suit  the  radical  Re 
publicans  in  Congress. 


"MR.   JOHNSON'S   POLICY   OF 
CONSTRUCTION" 


RE- 


SOME  COMMENT  FROM  THE  BOYS  IN   BLUE 

"His  policy,"  do  you  say? 
By  heaven,  who  says  so  lies  in  his  throat! 
'T  was  our  policy,  boys,  from  our  muster-day, 
Through  skirmish  and  bivouac,  march  and 

fray  — 
"His  policy,"  do  you  say? 

"His  policy"  — do  but  note! 
'T  is  a  pitiful  falsehood  for  you  to  say. 


560 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Did  he  bid  all  the  stars  in  our  banner  float  ? 

Was  it  he  shouted  Union  from  every  throat 

Through  the  long  war's  weary  day  ? 

"His  policy"  —  how  does  it  hap? 
Has  the  old  word  "Union"  no  meaning, 

pray? 

What  meant  the  "IT.  S."  upon  every  cap  — 
Upon  every  button,  belt,  and  strap? 
'T  was  our  policy  all  the  way. 

"His  policy?"   That  may  do 
For  a  silly  and  empty  political  brag; 
But  't  was  held  by  every  Boy  in  Blue 
When  he  lifted  his  right  hand,  stanch  and  true, 
And  swore  to  sustain  the  flag. 

We  are  with  him  none  the  less  — 
He  works  for  the  same  great  end  we  sought: 
We  feel  for  the  South  in  its  deep  distress. 
And  to  get  the  old  Union  restored  we  press  — 
'T  was  for  this  we  enlisted  and  fought. 

Be  it  his  or  whose  it  may, 
'T  is  the  policy,  boys,  that  we  avow: 
There  were  noble  hearts  in  the  ranks  of  gray 
As  they  proved  on  many  a  bloody  day, 

And  we  would  not  oppress  them  now. 

"  Let  us  all  forgive  and  forget : " 
It  was  thus  Grant  spoke  to  General  Lee, 
When,  with  wounds  still  raw  and  bayonets 

wet. 

The  chiefs  of  the  two  great  armies  met 
Beneath  the  old  apple-tree. 

CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE. 


The  leader  of  this  coterie  was  Thaddeua  Stevens. 
He  declared  the  South  was  in  a  state  of  anarchy, 
demanded  that  it  be  placed  under  military  rule 
and  that  suffrage  be  extended  to  the  negroes. 
In  February,  1868,  be  introduced  a  resolution 
that  "Andrew  Johnson,  President  of  the  United 
States,  be  impeached  of  high  crimes  and  misde 
meanors  in  office,"  but  at  the  trial  which  followed 
the  proceedings  were  shown  to  have  been  actu 
ated  by  partisan  bitterness  and  the  President  was 
acquitted.  The  verdict  was  a  heavy  blow  to 
Stevens.  He  had  burned  himself  out  and  died  in 
August. 

THADDEUS  STEVENS 

DIED  AUG.  11,  1868 

AN  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire, 
Not  the  look  of  the  gentle  dove; 


Not  his  the  form  that  men  admire, 
Nor  the  face  that  tender  women  love. 

Working  first  for  his  daily  bread 

With  the  humblest  toilers  of  the  earth; 

Never  walking  with  free,  proud  tread  — 
Crippled  and  halting  from  his  birth. 

Wearing  outside  a  thorny  suit 

Of  sharp,  sarcastic,  stinging  power; 

Sweet  at  the  core  as  sweetest  fruit, 
Or  inmost  heart  of  fragrant  flower. 

Fierce  and  trenchant,  the  haughty  foe 
Felt  his  words  like  a  sword  of  flame; 

But  to  the  humble,  poor,  and  low 
Soft  as  a  woman's  his  accents  came. 

Not  his  the  closest,  tenderest  friend  — 
No  children  blessed  his  lonely  way; 

But  down  in  his  heart  until  the  end 
The  tender  dream  of  his  boyhood  lay. 

His  mother's  faith  he  held  not  fast; 

But  he  loved  her  living,  mourned  her  dead, 
And  he  kept  her  memory  to  the  last 

As  green  as  the  sod  above  her  bed. 

He  held  as  sacred  in  his  home 

Whatever  things  she  wrought  or  planned. 
And  never  suffered  change  to  come 

To  the  work  of  her  "industrious  hand." 

For  her  who  pillowed  first  his  head 
He  heaped  with  a  wealth  of  flowers  the 
grave, 

While  he  chose  to  sleep  in  an  unmarked  bed. 
By  his  Master's  humblest  poor  —  the  slave! 

f 

Suppose  he  swerved  from  the  straightest 
course  — 

That  the  things  he  should  not  do  he  did  — 
That  he  hid  from  the  eyes  of  mortals,  close, 

Such  sins  as  you  and  I  have  hid  ? 

Or  suppose  him  worse  than  you ;  what  then  ? 

Judge  not,  lest  you  be  judged  for  sin ! 
One  said  who  knew  the  hearts  of  men : 

Who  loveth  much  shall  a  pardon  win. 

The  Prince  of  Glory  for  sinners  bled ; 

His  soul  was  bought  with  a  royal  price; 
And  his  beautified  feet  on  flowers  may  tread 

To-day  with  his  Lord  in  Paradise. 

PHCEBE  CABT. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  TO  THE  STATES  OF  THE  NORTH      561 


The  South's  condition  meanwhile  was  pitiful 
indeed.  Negroes,  led  by  "carpet-baggers"  from 
the  North,  secured  the  ascendancy  in  state  gov 
ernment.  Millions  of  dollars  were  wasted  or  stolen , 
and  it  looked  for  a  time  as  though  a  great  sec 
tion  of  the  country  was  doomed  to  negro  domi 
nation. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  TO  THE 
STATES  OF  THE  NORTH 

ESPECIALLY    TO    THOSE   THAT    FORMED    A 
PART    OF    THE    ORIGINAL    THIRTEEN 

I  LIFT  these  hands  with  iron  fetters  banded : 
Beneath   the  scornful  sunlight  and   cold 

stars 
I  rear  my  once  imperial  forehead  branded 

By  alien  shame's  immedicable  scars; 
Like  some  pale  captive,  shunned  by  all  the 

nations, 

I  crouch  unpitied,  quivering  and  apart  — 
Laden  with  countless  woes  and  desolations, 
The   life-blood   freezing   round   a   broken 
heart ! 

About  my  feet,  splashed  red  with  blood  of 

slaughters, 
My  children  gathering  in  wild,  mournful 

throngs, 

Despairing  sons,  frail  infants,  stricken  daugh 
ters, 

Rehearse  the  awful  burden  of  their  wrongs; 
Vain  is  their  cry,  and  worse  than  vain  their 

pleading: 
I  turn  from  stormy  breasts,  from  yearning 

eyes, 
To  mark  where  Freedom's  outraged  form 

receding. 

Wanes  in  chill  shadow  down  the  midnight 
skies ! 

I  wooed  her  once  in  wild  tempestuous  places, 

The  purple  vintage  of  my  soul  outpoured, 

To  win  and  keep  her  unrestrained  embraces, 

What  time  the  olive-crown  o'ertopped  the 

sword ; 
Oh!    northmen,  with    your   gallant    heroes 

blending, 
Mine,  in  old  years,  for  this  sweet  goddess 

died; 

But  now  —  ah !  shame,  all  other  shame  tran 
scending! 

Your  pitiless  hands  have  torn  her  from  my 
side. 


What  I  */  is  a  tyrant-party's  treacherous  action  — 
Your  hand  is  clean,  your  conscience  dear, 

ye  sigh ; 
Ay!  but  ere  now  your  sires  had  throttled 

faction, 

Or,  pealed  o'er  half  the  world  their  battle- 
cry; 

Its   voice  outrung   from  solemn  mountain- 
passes 
Swept  by  wild  storm-winds  of  the  Atlantic 

strand, 

To  where  the  swart  Sierras'  sullen  grasses 
Droop  in  low  languors  of  the  sunset-land! 

Never,  since  earthly  States  began  their  story. 
Hath  any  suffered,  bided,  borne  like  me: 
At  last,  recalling  all  mine  ancient  glory, 
1   vowed   my  fettered    Commonwealth  to 

free: 
Even  at  the  thought,  beside  the  prostrate 

column 
Of  chartered  rights,  which  blasted  lay  and 

dim  — 

Uprose  my  noblest  son  with  purpose  solemn. 
While,  host  on  host,  his  brethren  followed 
him : 

Wrong,  grasped  by  truth,  arraigned  by  law 

(whose  sober 
Majestic  mandates  rule  o'er  change  and 

time)  — 

Smit  by  the  ballot,  like  some  flushed  October, 
Reeled   in   the   Autumn   rankness  of   his 

crime; 
Struck,  tortured,  pierced  —  but  not  a  blow 

returning. 
The    steadfast    phalanx   of   my    honored 

braves 
Planted   their  bloodless  flag  where  sunrise 

burning, 

Flashed  a  new  splendor  o'er  our  martyrs' 
graves ! 

What  then  ?   Oh,  sister  States !  what  welcome 

omen 
Of  love  and  concord  crossed  our  brightening 

blue, 

The  foes  we  vanquished,  are  they  not  your  foe- 
men, 
Our  laws  upheld,  your  sacred  safeguards. 

too? 
Yet  scarce  had  victory  crowned  our  grand 

endeavor, 

And  peace  crept  out  from  shadowy  glooms 
remote  — 


562 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Than  —  as  if  bared  to  blast  all   hope  for 
ever, 

Your  tyrant's  sword  shone  glittering  at  my 
throat! 

Once  more  my  bursting  chains  were  reunited, 

Once  more  barbarian  plaudits  wildly  rung 

O'er  the  last  promise  of  deliverance  blighted. 

The   prostrate    purpose   and    the    palsied 

tongue : 

Ah!  faithless  sisters,   'neath    my  swift    un 
doing, 
Peers  the  black  presage  of  your  wrath  to 

come; 

Above  your  heads  are  signal  clouds  of  ruin. 
Whose   lightnings   flash,    whose   thunders 
are  not  dumb! 

There  towers  a  judgment-seat  beyond  our 

seeing; 
There    lives  a    Judge,  whom    none    can 

bribe  or  blind ; 

Before  whose  dread  decree,  your  spirit  fleeing, 
May  reap  the  whirlwind,  having  sown  the 

wind: 

I,  in  that  day  of  justice,  fierce  and  torrid, 
When  blood  —  your  blood  —  outpours  like 

poisoned  wine, 
Pointing  to  these  chained  limbs,  this  blasted 

forehead, 

May  mock  your  ruin,  an  ye  mocked  at  mine  I 
PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


But  the  white  people  of  the  South  rallied  at 
fast,  asserted  their  supremacy,  and  seized  the 
reins  of  government.  The  famous  Ku-KIux  Klan 
was  organized  and  spread  terror  among  the  ne 
groes,  by  its  sure  and  swift  administration  of 
punishment  —  just  and  unjust. 


KU-KLUX 

WE  have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core, 

And  nailed  a  warning  upon  his  door; 

By  the  Ku-Klux  laws  we  can  do  no  more. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  'mid  crib  and  stack, 
The  roof   of   his   low-porched   house  looms 

black, 
Not  a  line  of  light  at  the  doorsill's  crack. 

Yet  arm  and  mount!  and  mask  and  ride! 
The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may 

hide! 
And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 


The  clouds  blow  heavy  towards  the  moon. 
The  edge  of  the  storm  will  reach  it  soon. 
The  killdee  cries  and  the  lonesome  loon. 

The  clouds  shall  flush  with  a  wilder  glare 
Than  the  lightning  makes  with  his  angled  flare, 
When  the  Ku-Klux  verdict  is  given  there. 

In  the  pause  of  the  thunder  rolling  low, 
A  rifle's  answer  —  who  shall  know 
From  the  wind's  fierce  hurl  and  the  rain's 
black  blow? 

Only  the  signature  written  grim 

At  the  end  of  the  message  brought  to  him,  — 

A  hempen  rope  and  a  twisted  limb. 

So  arm  and  mount!  and  mask  and  ride! 
The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may 

hide! 

And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 
MADISON  CAWEIN. 


The  North  kept  its  hands  off  and  permitted  the 
South  to  work  out  its  own  destiny  —  which  it  did 
blindly  and  blunderingly  enough.  Yet  bravely, 
too;  for  it  had  only  ashes  to  build  from.  But  from 
the  ashes  a  new  land  arose,  and  a  better  one. 

THE   REAR   GUARD 

THE  guns  are  hushed.    On  every  field  once 

flowing 
With  war's  red  flood  May's  breath  of  peace 

is  shed, 

And,  spring's  young  grass  and  gracious  flow 
ers  are  growing 
Above  the  dead. 

Ye  gray  old  men  whom  we  this  day  are  greet 
ing, 

Honor  to  you,  honor  and  love  and  trust ! 
Brave  to  the  brave.   Your  soldier  hands  are 
meeting 
Across  their  dust. 

Bravely  they  fought  who  charged  when  flags 

were  flying 
In  cannon's  crash,  in  screech  and  scream 

of  shell; 

Bravely  they  fell,  who  lay  alone  and  dying 
In  battle's  hell. 

Honor  to  them !  Far  graves  to-day  are  flinging 
Up  through  the  soil  peace-blooms  to  meet 
the  sun, 


THE   BLUE  AND   THE   GRAY 


563 


And  daisied  heads  to  summer  winds  are  sing 
ing 
Their  long  "well  done." 

Our  vanguard,  they.    They  went  with  hot 

blood  flushing 

At  battle's  din,  at  joy  of  bugle's  call. 
They  fell  with  smiles,  the  flood  of  young  life 
gushing, 

Full  brave  the  fall! 

But  braver  ye  who,  when  the  war  was  ended, 
And  bugle's  call  and  wave  of  flag  were 

done, 

Could  come  back  home,  so  long  left  unde 
fended. 

Your  cause  unwon, 

And  twist  the  useless  sword  to  hook  of  reaping, 
Rebuild  the  homes,  set  back   the  empty 

chair 

And  brave  a  land  where  waste  and  want  were 
keeping 

Guard  everywhere. 

All  this  you  did,  your  courage  strong  upon  you, 

And  out  of  ashes,  wreck,  a  new  land  rose. 
Through  years  of  war  no  braver  battle  won 
you, 

'Gainst  fiercer  foes. 

And  now  to-day  a  prospered  land  is  cheering 

And  lifting  up  her  voice  in  lusty  pride 
For  you  gray  men,  who  fought  and  wrought, 
not  fearing 

Battle's  red  tide. 

Our  rear  guard,  ye  whose  step  is  slowing, 

slowing, 
Whose    ranks,    earth-thinned,    are    filling 

otherwhere, 

Who  wore  the  gray  —  the  gray,  alas !  still 
showing 

On  bleaching  hair. 

For  forty  years  you've  watched  this  land  grow 

stronger, 
For  forty  years  you've  been  its  bulwark, 

stay; 

Tarry  awhile;  pause  yet  a  little  longer 
Upon  the  way. 

And  set  our  feet  where  there  may  be  no  turn 
ing, 
And  set  our  faces  straight  on  duty's  track, 


Where  there  may  be  for  stray,  strange  goods 
no  yearning 

Nor  looking  back. 

And  when  for  you  the  last  tattoo  has  sounded, 
And  on  death's  silent  field  you've  pitched 

your  tent, 

When,  bowed  through  tears,  the  arc  of  life 
has  rounded 
To  full  content, 

We  that  are  left  will  count  it  guerdon  royal, 

Our  heritage  no  years  can  take  away, 
That  we  were   born   of  those,  unflinching, 
loyal, 

Who  wore  the  gray. 

IRENE  FOWLER  BROWN. 


The  bitterness  which  the  great  struggle  had 
engendered  gradually  gave  place  to  a  kindlier 
feeling.  As  early  as  1867,  the  women  of  Columbus, 
Miss.,  decorated  alike  the  graves  of  Confederate 
and  Union  soldiers,  an  action  which  was  the  first 
of  many  such. 


THE   BLUE  AND   THE   GRAY 

[1867] 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 


564 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


So  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH. 


When  the  South  was  swept  by  yellow  fever  a 
few  years  later,  the  North  rushed  to  its  relief  in 
a  way  which  showed  how  completely  old  animos 
ities  had  been  forgotten. 


THE    STRICKEN    SOUTH    TO    THE 
NORTH 

WHEN  ruthful  time  the  South  'a  memorial 

places  — 
Her    heroes'    graves  —  had    wreathed    in 

grass  and  flowers; 
When  Peace  ethereal,  crowned  by  all  her 

graces, 

Returned  to  make  more  bright  the  summer 
hours; 


When  doubtful  hearts  revived,   and   hopes 

grew  stronger; 
When    old    sore-cankering    wounds    that 

pierced  and  stung, 
Throbbed   with   their   first,    mad,    feverous 

pain  no  longer, 
While  the  fair  future  spake  with  flattering 

tongue; 
When  once,  once  more  she  felt  her  pulses 

beating 
To  rhythms  of  healthful  joy  and  brave 

desire; 

Lo!  round  her  doomed  horizon  darkly  meet 
ing, 
A  pall  of  blood-red  vapors  veined  with  fire ! 

Oh!    ghastly   portent    of    fast-coming    sor 
rows! 
Of  doom  that  blasts  the  blood  and  blights 

the  breath, 
Robs   youth   and    manhood   of  all    golden 

morrows  — 
And  life's  clear  goblet  brims  with  wine  of 

death !  — 

Oh!  swift  fulfilment  of  this  portent  dreary! 
Oh!    nightmare  rule  of   ruin,  racked    by 

fears, 
Heartbroken  wail,  and  solemn  miserere, 

Imperious  anguish,  and  soul-melting  tears! 
Oh!    faith,  thrust  downward  from   celestial 

splendors, 

Oh!    love   grief-bound,    with    palely-mur 
murous  mouth! 

Oh !  agonized  by  life's  supreme  surrenders  — 
Behold  her  now  —  the  scourged  and  suffer 
ing  South! 

No  balm  in  Gilead  ?  nay,  but  while  her  fore 
head, 

Pallid  and  drooping,  lies  in  foulest  dust, 
There  steals  across  the  desolate  spaces  tor 
rid, 
A  voice   of  manful  cheer   and    heavenly 

trust, 

A  hand  redeeming  breaks  the  frozen  stark- 
ness 
Of  palsied   nerve,   and  dull,  despondent 

brain ; 

Rolls  back  the  curtain  of  malignant  dark 
ness, 
And    shows  the  eternal    blue  of   heaven 

again  — 
Revealing  there,  o'er  worlds  convulsed  and 

shaken, 
That  face  whose  mystic  tenderness  enticed 


THE   CABLE   HYMN 


565 


To   hope    new-born   earth's    lost    bereaved, 

forsaken ! 

Ah!  still  beyond  the  tempest  smiles  the 
Christ! 

Whose   voice  ?    Whose   hand  ?    Oh,    thanks 

divinest  Master, 
Thanks  for  those  grand  emotions  which 

impart 

Grace  to  the  North  to  feel  the  South's  dis 
aster. 
The  South  to  bow  with  touched  and  cordial 

heart ! 
Now,  now  at  last  the  links  which  war  had 

broken 

Are  welded  fast,  at  mercy's  charmed  com 
mands  ; 
Now,  now    at    last    the    magic  words    are 

spoken 
Which    blend    in   one   two    long -divided 

lands ! 
O  North!  you  came  with  warrior  strife  and 

clangor ; 

You  left  our  South  one  gory  burial  ground ; 
But  love,  more  potent  than  your  haughtiest 

anger. 

Subdues  the  souls  which  hate  could  only 
wound ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


On  July  29,  1866.  the  first  submarine  cable  was 
completed  between  Ireland  and  Newfoundland, 
the  enterprise  having  been  undertaken  and  carried 
through  by  Cyrus  West  Field. 


HOW   CYRUS  LAID   THE    CABLE 

[July  29.  1866] 

COME,  listen  all  unto  my  song; 

It  is  no  silly  fable; 
*T  is  all  about  the  mighty  cord 

They  call  the  Atlantic  Cable. 

Bold  Cyrus  Field  he  said,  says  he, 

"I  have  a  pretty  notion 
That  I  can  run  a  telegraph 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean." 

Then  all  the  people  laughed,  and  said 
They'd  like  to  see  him  do  it; 

He  might  get  half-seas  over,  but 
He  never  could  go  through  it. 


To  carry  out  his  foolish  plan 

He  never  would  be  able; 
He  might  as  well  go  hang  himself 

With  his  Atlantic  Cable. 

But  Cyrus  was  a  valiant  man, 

A  fellow  of  decision ; 
And  heeded  not  their  mocking  words, 

Their  laughter  and  derision. 

Twice  did  his  bravest  efforts  fail, 
And  yet  his  mind  was  stable; 

He  wa'n't  the  man  to  break  his  heart 
Because  he  broke  his  cable. 

"Once  more,  my  gallant  boys!"  he  cried; 

"  Three   times  I  —  you   know   the  fa 
ble 
(I'll  make  it  thirty,"  muttered  he, 

"But  I  will  lay  the  cable!"). 

Once  more  they  tried,  —  hurrah !  hurrah ! 

What  means  this  great  commotion  ? 
The  Lord  be  praised !  the  cable 's  laid 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean ! 

Ixjud  ring  the  bells,  —  for,  flashing  through 
Six  hundred  leagues  of  water, 

Old  Mother  England's  benison 
Salutes  her  eldest  daughter! 

O'er  all  the  land  the  tidings  speed, 

And  soon,  in  every  nation, 
They'll  hear  about  the  cable  with 

Profoundest  admiration ! 

Now,  long  live  President  and  Queen; 

And  long  live  gallant  Cyrus; 
And  may  his  courage,  faith,  and  zeal 

With  emulation  fire  us; 

And  may  we  honor  evermore 

The  manly,  bold,  and  stable; 

And  tell  our  sons,  to  make  them  brave, 
How  Cyrus  laid  the  cable! 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 


THE   CABLE   HYMN 

O  LONELY  bay  of  Trinity, 
O  dreary  shores,  give  ear! 

Lean  down  unto  the  while-lipped  sea 
The  voice  of  God  to  hear! 


566 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


From  world  to  world  His  couriers  fly, 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

"The  world's  long  strife  is  done; 
Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

"And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

"Through  Orient  seas,  o'er  Afric's  plain 

And  Asian  mountains  borne. 
The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 

Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

"From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread ; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead." 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder!  beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach; 

Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 
And  melt  the  chains  of  each ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 

Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below! 
Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 

Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral' shroud  of  war! 

For  lo!  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 

The  tongues  of  striving  cease; 
As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

The  most  notable  accomplishment  of  Johnson's 
administration  was  the  purchase  from  Russia  in 
1867  of  the  territory  of  Alaska.  The  price  paid 
was  $7,200,000,  and  the  cession  was  formally 
made  on  June  20. 


AN   ARCTIC   VISION 

[June  20,  1867] 

WHERE  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 
Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  Polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine, 
And  by  night  another  vermin,  — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Elias'  cone; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships; 
Land  of  fox  and  deer  and  sable. 
Shore  end  of  our  western  cable,  — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  Arctic  floes, 
And  reverberate  the  boast 
From  the  cliffs  off  Beechey's  coast, 
Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 
Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 
Throw  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 
To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 
Let  the  stately  Polar  bears 
Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 
And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 
Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory; 
While  the  bold  sea-unicorn 
Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn; 
All  ye  Polar  skies,  reveal  your 
Very  rarest  of  parhelia; 
Trip  it.  all  ye  merry  dancers, 
In  the  airiest  of  "Lancers"; 
Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 
One  inch  farther  to  the  tide, 
Nor  in  rash  precipitation 
Upset  TyndalFs  calculation. 
Know  you  not  what  fate  awaits  you; 
Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you  ? 
All  ye  icebergs  make  salaam,  — 
You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Russ  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold; 
I/ean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor! 
See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring; 


ISRAEL   FREYFR'S   BID    FOR   GOLD 


567 


On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain, 
Just  beside  the  deep  inden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild-duck's  clamor. 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 
With  its  linguistic  disguises, 
Lo,  the  Arctic  prologue  rises: 
'Wall,  I  reckon  'tain't  so  bad, 
Seein'  ez  't  was  all  they  had ; 
True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late 
And  early  Falls  predominate; 
But  the  ice  crop  's  pretty  sure, 
And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure; 
'Tain't  so  very  mean  a  trade. 
When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 
There's  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 
All  along  this  recent  purchase, 
And,  unless  the  stories  fail, 
Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale; 
Rocks,  too ;  mebbe  quartz ;  let 's  see,  — 
'T  would  be  strange  if  there  should  be,  — 
Seems  I've  heerd  such  stories  told; 
Eh !  —  why,  bless  us,  —  yes,  it 's  gold ! " 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick. 
You  may  recognize  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw,  — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer. 

BRET  HARTE. 


ALASKA 

ICE  built,  ice  bound,  and  ice  bounded, 
Such  cold  seas  of  silence !  such  room ! 
Such  snow-light,  such  sea-light,  confounded 
With  thunders  that  smite  like  a  doom! 
Such  grandeur!  such  glory!  such  gloom! 
Hear  that  boom !  Hear  that  deep  distant  boom 

Of  an  avalanche  hurled 

Down  this  unfinished  world! 

Ice  seas !  and  ice  summits !  ice  spaces 
In  splendor  of  white,  as  God's  throne! 
Ice  worlds  to  the  pole!  and  ice  places 
Untracked,  and  unnamed,  and  unknown! 
Hear  that  boom!    Hear  the  grinding,  the 

groan 
Of  the  ice-gods  in  pain !   Hear  the  moan 


Of  yon  ice  mountain  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

Friday,  September  24,  1869,  witnessed  one  of 
the  greatest  panics  ever  known  in  the  United 
States,  when  Jay  Gould  and  a  few  associates 
managed  to  drive  the  price  of  gold  up  to  162}. 

ISRAEL  FREYER'S  BID  FOR  GOLD 

FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  24,  1869 

ZOUNDS  !  how  the  price  went  flashing  through 
Wall  Street,  William,  Broad  Street,  New! 
All  the  specie  in  all  the  land 
Held  in  one  Ring  by  a  giant  hand  — 
For  millions  more  it  was  ready  to  pay, 
And  throttle  the  Street  on  hangman's-day. 
Up  from  the  Gold  Pit's  nether  hell, 
While  the  innocent  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Loud  and  higher  the  bidding  rose, 
And  the  bulls,  triumphant,  faced  their  foes. 
It  seemed  as  if  Satan  himself  were  in  it: 
Lifting  it  —  one  per  cent  a  minute  — 
Through  the  bellowing  broker,  there  amid, 
Who  made  the  terrible,  final  bid ! 
High  over  all,  and  ever  higher. 
Was  heard  the  voice  of  Israel  Freyer,  — 
A  doleful  knell  in  the  storm-swept  mart,  — 
"Five  millions  more!  and  for  any  part 
I'll  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty!" 

Israel  Freyer  —  the  Government  Jew  — 
Good    as   the   best  —  soaked    through   and 

through 

With  credit  gained  in  the  year  he  sold 
Our  Treasury's  precious  hoard  of  gold; 
Now    through    his    thankless    mouth    rings 

out 

The  leaguers'  last  and  cruellest  shout! 
Pity  the  shorts  ?    Not  they,  indeed, 
While  a  single  rival 's  left  to  bleed ! 
Down  come  dealers  in  silks  and  hides, 
Crowding  the  Gold  Room's  rounded  sides, 
Jostling,  trampling  each  other's  feet, 
Uttering  groans  in  the  outer  street; 
Watching,  with  upturned  faces  pale, 
The  scurrying  index  mark  its  tale; 

Hearing  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer,  — 
That  ominous  voice,  would  it  never  tire  ? 
"Five  millions  more!  —  for  any  part 
(If  it  breaks  your  firm,  if  it  cracks  your 

heart) , 
I'll  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty!" 


568 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


One  Hundred  and  Sixty!    Can't  be  true! 
What  will  the  bears-at-forty  do  ? 
How  will  the  merchants  pay  their  dues  ? 
How  will  the  country  stand  the  news  ? 
What '11  the  banks  — but  listen!  hold! 
In  screwing  upward  the  price  of  gold 
To  that  dangerous,  last,  particular  peg, 
They  have  killed  their  Goose  with  the  Golden 

Egg! 

Just  there  the  metal  came  pouring  out, 
All  ways  at  once,  like  a  water-spout, 
Or  a  rushing,  gushing,  yellow  flood, 
That  drenched  the  bulls  wherever  they  stood ! 
Small  need  to  open  the  Washington  main, 
Their  coffer-dams  were  burst  with  the  strain ! 
It  came  by  runners,  it  came  by  wire, 
To  answer  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer, 
It  poured  in  millions  from  every  side, 
And  almost  strangled  him  as  he  cried,  — 
"I'll  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty!" 

Like  Vulcan  after  Jupiter's  kick, 
Or  the  aphoristical  Rocket's  stick, 
Down,  down,  down,  the  premium  fell, 
Faster  than  this  rude  rhyme  can  tell! 
Thirty  per  cent  the  index  slid, 
Yet  Freyer  still  kept  making  his  bid,  — 
"One  Hundred  and  Sixty  for  any  part!" 
—  The  sudden  ruin  had  crazed  his  heart, 
Shattered  his  senses,  cracked  his  brain, 
And  left  him  crying  again  and  again,  — 
Still  making  his  bid  at  the  market's  top 
(Like  the  Dutchman's  leg  that  never  could 

stop), 
"One  Hundred  and  Sixty  —  Five  Millions 

more ! " 

Till  they  dragged  him,  howling,  off  the  floor. 
The  very  last  words  that  seller  and  buyer 
Heard  from  the  mouth  of  Israel  Freyer  — 
A  cry  to  remember  long  as  they  live  • — 
Were,  "I'll  take  Five  Millions  more !  I'll  give — 
I'll  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty!" 

Suppose  (to  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil) 
There's  such  a  thing  as  a  Personal  Devil, 
It  would  seem  that  his  Highness  here  got  hold, 
For  once,  of  a  bellowing  Bull  in  Gold ! 
Whether  bull  or  bear,  it  would  n't  much  matter 
Should  Israel  Freyer  keep  up  his  clatter 
On  earth  or  under  it  (as,  they  say, 
He  is  doomed)  till  the  general  Judgment  Day. 
When  the  Clerk,  as  he  cites  him  to  answer  for 't, 
Shall  bid  him  keep  silence  in  that  Court! 
But  it  matters  most,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
That  my  countrymen ,  great  and  strong  and  free, 


So  marvel  at  fellows  who  seem  to  win, 

That  if  even  a  Clown  can  only  begin 

By  stealing  a  railroad,  and  use  its  purse 

For  cornering  stocks  and  gold,  or  —  worse  — 

For  buying  a  Judge  and  Legislature, 

And  sinking  still  lower  poor  human  nature, 

The  gaping  public,  whatever  befall, 

Will  swallow  him,  tandem,  harlots,  and  all ! 

While  our  rich  men  drivel  and  stand  amazed 

At  the  dust  and  pother  his  gang  have  raised, 

And  make  us  remember  a  nursery  tale 

Of  the  four-and-twenty  who  feared  one  snail. 

What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  breed,  you  know; 
Clowns  and  their  trainers,  high  and  low, 
WTill  cut  such  capers,  long  as  they  dare, 
While  honest  Poverty  says  its  prayer. 
But  tell  me  what  prayer  or  fast  can  save 
Some  hoary  candidate  for  the  grave, 
The  market's  wrinkled  Giant  Despair, 
Muttering,  brooding,  scheming  there,  — 
Founding  a  college  or  building  a  church 
Lest  Heaven  should  leave  him  in  the  lurch! 
Better  come  out  in  the  rival  way, 
Issue  your  scrip  in  open  day. 
And  pour  your  wealth  in  the  grimy  fist 
Of  some  gross-mouthed,  gambling  pugilist; 
Leave  toil  and  poverty  where  they  lie, 
Pass  thinkers,  workers,  artists,  by. 
Your  pot-house  fag  from  his  counters  bring 
And  make  him  into  a  Railway  King! 
Between  such  Gentiles  and  such  Jews 
Little  enough  one  finds  to  choose: 
Either  the  other  will  buy  and  use, 
Eat  the  meat  and  throw  him  the  bone. 
And  leave  him  to  stand  the  brunt  alone. 

—  Let  the  tempest  come,  that's  gathering  near 
And  give  us  a  better  atmosphere! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

On  October  8  and  9.  1871,  Chicago,  which  had 
grown  to  be  the  greatest  city  in  the  West,  was 
almost  entirely  destroyed  by  fire.  An  area  of  three 
and  a  half  square  miles  was  burned  over;  two 
hundred  people  were  killed  and  a  hundred  thou 
sand  rendered  homeless. 

CHICAGO 

[October  8-10.  1871] 

MEN  said  at  vespers:  "All  is  well!" 
In  one  wild  night  the  city  fell; 
Fell  shrines  of  prayer  and  marts  of  gain 
Before  the  fiery  hurricane. 


CHICAGO 


569 


On  threescore  spires  had  sunset  shone, 
Where  ghastly  sunrise  looked  on  none. 
Men  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  said: 
"The  City  of  the  West  is  dead!" 

Brave  hearts  who  fought,  in  slow  retreat, 
The  fiends  of  fire  from  street  to  street, 
Turned,  powerless,  to  the  blinding  glare, 
The  dumb  defiance  of  despair. 

A  sudden  impulse  thrilled  each  wire 
That  signalled  round  that  sea  of  fire; 
Swift  words  of  cheer,  warm  heart-throbs  came; 
In  tears  of  pity  died  the  flame! 

From    East,   from   West,   from   South   and 

North, 

The  messages  of  hope  shot  forth. 
And,  underneath  the  severing  wave, 
The  world,  full-handed,  reached  to  save. 

Fair  seemed  the  old ;  but  fairer  still 
The  new,  the  dreary  void  shall  fill 
With  dearer  homes  than  those  o'erthrown, 
For  love  shall  lay  each  corner-stone. 

Rise,  stricken  city!  from  thee  throw 
The  ashen  sackcloth  of  thy  woe; 
And  build,  as  to  Amphion's  strain, 
To  songs  of  cheer  thy  walls  again! 

How  shrivelled  in  thy  hot  distress 
The  primal  sin  of  selfishness! 
How  instant  rose,  to  take  thy  part, 
The  angel  in  the  human  heart! 

Ah!  not  in  vain  the  flames  that  tossed 
Above  thy  dreadful  holocaust; 
The  Christ  again  has  preached  through  thee 
The  Gospel  of  Humanity! 

Then  lift  once  more  thy  towers  on  high, 
And  fret  with  spires  the  western  sky, 
To  tell  that  God  is  yet  with  us. 
And  love  is  still  miraculous! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


CHICAGO 

BLACKENED  and  bleeding,  helpless,  panting, 

prone, 
On  the  charred  fragments  of  her  shattered 

throne 
Lies  she  who  stood  but  yesterday  alone. 


Queen  of  the  West !  by  some  enchanter  taught 
To  lift  the  glory  of  Aladdin's  court, 
Then   lose  the  spell   that  all  that  wonder 
wrought. 

Like  her  own  prairies  by  some  chance  seed 

sown, 

Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  brief  day  grown. 
Like  her  own  prairies  in  one  fierce  night 


She  lifts  her  voice,  and  in  her  pleading  call 
We  hear  the  cry  of  Macedon  to  Paul, 
The  cry  for  help  that  makes  her  kin  to  all. 

But  haply  with  wan  fingers  may  she  feel 
The  silver  cup  hid  in  the  proffered  meal, 
The  gifts  her  kinship  and  our  loves  reveal. 
BRET  HARTE. 

The  whole  country  rallied  to  the  aid  of  the 
stricken  city.  An  Aid  and  Relief  Society  was  at 
once  formed,  and  within  a  month  had  received 
subscriptions  aggregating  three  and  a  half  millions. 

CHICAGO 

GAUNT  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie, 

She  who  was  once  so  fair; 
Charred  and  rent  are  her  garments, 
Heavy  and  dark  like  cerements; 

Silent,  but  round  her  the  air 
Plaintively  wails,  "Miserere!" 

Proud  like  a  beautiful  maiden, 
Art-like  from  forehead  to  feet, 

Was  she  till  pressed  like  a  leman 

Close  to  the  breast  of  the  demon, 
Lusting  for  one  so  sweet. 

So  were  her  shoulders  laden. 

Friends  she  had,  rich  in  her  treasures: 
Shall  the  old  taunt  be  true,  — 

Fallen,  they  turn  their  cold  faces, 

Seeking  new  wealth -gilded  places, 
Saying  we  never  knew 

Aught  of  her  smiles  or  her  pleasures  ? 

Silent  she  stands  on  the  prairie. 
Wrapped  in  her  fire-scathed  sheet: 

Around  her,  thank  God,  is  the  Nation, 

Weeping  for  her  desolation, 
Pouring  its  gold  at  her  feet, 

Answering  her  "Miserere!" 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


57° 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Only  second  to  the  Chicago  fire  in  destructive- 
ness  was  that  which  visited  Boston  in  the  follow 
ing  year.  It  started  on  Saturday  evening,  Novem 
ber  9;  1872,  and  sixty-five  acres  were  laid  waste 
before  it  was  controlled. 

BOSTON 

[November  9,  1 872] 

O  BROAD-BREASTED  Queen  among  Nations! 

O  Mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth! 
Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 
And  willed  thou  be  chastened  by  fire, 

Without  any  ruth  ? 

Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  His  mercy, 
And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 

That  the  world  with  raised  hand  sees  and 
pities 

Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 
Despoiled  on  their  path  ? 

One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken: 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 
Ah !  God,  was  Thy  wrath  without  pity, 
To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  city, 

And  cast  it  away  ? 

O  Father!  forgive  us  our  doubting; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface; 
Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten, 
Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 

Return  to  Thy  grace. 

Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes 
As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved; 

Let  us  show  that  twice-sent  desolation 

On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 
Has  conquest  achieved. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


The  district  burned  contained  the  finest  busi 
ness  blocks  in  the  city,  and  the  loss  was  estimated 
at  $80,000,000.  For  a  time,  it  seemed  that  the 
famous  "Old  South"  would  be  destroyed. 

THE    CHURCH    OF    THE    REVOLU 
TION 

"  The  Old  South  stands." 

LOUD  through  the  still  November  air 
The  clang  and  clash  of  fire-bells  broke; 

From  street  to  street,  from  square  to  square. 
Rolled  sheets  of  Same  and  clouds  of  smoke. 


The  marble  structures  reeled  and  fell, 
The  iron  pillars  bowed  like  lead; 

But  one  lone  spire  rang  on  its  bell 
Above  the  flames.   Men  passed,  and  said, 
"The  Old  South  stands!" 

The  gold  moon,  'gainst  a  copper  sky, 

Hung  like  a  portent  in  the  air, 
The  midnight  came,  the  wind  rose  high, 

And  men  stood  speechless  in  despair. 
But,  as  the  marble  columns  broke, 

And  wider  grew  the  chasm  red,  — 
A  seething  gulf  of  flame  and  smoke,  — 

The  firemen  marked  the  spire  and  said, 
"The  Old  South  stands!" 

Beyond  the  harbor,  calm  and  fair. 

The  sun  came  up  through  bars  of  gold, 
Then  faded  in  a  wannish  glare, 

As  flame  and  smoke  still  upward  rolled. 
The  princely  structures,  crowned  with  art, 

Where  Commerce  laid  her  treasures  bare; 
The  haunts  of  trade,  the  common  mart, 

All  vanished  in  the  withering  air,  — 
"The  Old  South  stands!" 

"The  Old  South  must  be  levelled  soon 

To  check  the  flames  and  save  the  street; 
Bring  fuse  and  powder."   But  at  noon 

The  ancient  fane  still  stood  complete. 
The  mitred  flame  had  lipped  the  spire, 

The  smoke  its  blackness  o'er  it  cast; 
Then,  hero-like,  men  fought  the  fire, 

And  from  each  lip  the  watchword  passed,  — • 
"The  Old  South  stands!' 

All  night  the  red  sea  round  it  rolled. 

And  o'er  it  fell  the  fiery  rain: 
And,  as  each  hour  the  old  clock  told, 

Men  said,  "'Twill  never  strike  again!" 
But  still  the  dial-plate  at  morn 

Was  crimsoned  in  the  rising  light. 
Long  may  it  redden  with  the  dawn, 

And  mark  the  shading  hours  of  night! 
Long  may  it  stand! 

Long  may  it  stand !  where  help  was  sought 

In  weak  and  dark  and  doubtful  days: 
Where  freedom's  lessons  first  were  taught, 

And  prayers  of  faith  were  turned  to  praise; 
Where  burned  the  first  Shekinah's  flame 

In  God's  new  temples  of  the  free; 
Long  may  it  stand,  in  freedom's  name, 

Like  Israel's  pillar  by  the  sea! 
Long  may  it  stand ! 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


THE   RIDE   OF   COLLINS   GRAVES 


The  nation  rushed  to  Boston's  aid  just  as  it  had 
done  to  Chicago's,  and  the  city  soon  rose  from  her 
ashes  greater  than  ever. 


AFTER  THE   FIRE 

WHILE  far  along  the  eastern  sky 

I  saw  the  flags  of  Havoc  fly, 

As  if  his  forces  would  assault 

The  sovereign  of  the  starry  vault 

And  hurl  Him  back  the  burning  rain 

That  seared  the  cities  of  the  plain, 

I  read  as  on  a  crimson  page 

The  words  of  Israel's  sceptred  sage :  — 

For  riches  make  them  wings,  and  they 
Do  as  an  eagle  fly  away. 

O  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 

What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 

That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 

Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise, 

As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 

And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — 

Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 

How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire, 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes, 
And  crowned  with  starry-gleaming  vanes, 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-born  splendors  not  her  own. 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice! 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 

And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red; 

As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 

To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 

His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 

How  changed  the  pathways  known  so 

well; 

The  scene,  how  new !    The  tale,  how  old 
Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold ! 

Again  I  read  the  words  that  came 
Writ  in  the  rubric  of  the  flame: 
Howe'er  we  trust  to  mortal  things, 
Each  hath  its  pair  of  folded  wings; 
Though  long  their  terrors  rest  unspread 
Their  fatal  plumes  are  never  shed; 
At  last,  at  last,  they  stretch  in  flight, 
And  blot  the  day  and  blast  the  night ! 


Hope,  only  Hope,  of  all  that  clings 
Around  us,  never  spreads  her  wings; 
Love,  though  he  break  his  earthly  chain, 
Still  whispers  he  will  come  again; 
But  Faith  that  soars  to  seek  the  sky 
Shall  teach  our  half-fledged  souls  to  fly, 
And  find,  beyond  the  smoke  and  flame, 
The  cloudless  azure  whence  they  came! 

OLIVEB  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


On  May  16,  1874,  the  bursting  of  a  reservoir 
dam  at  Williamsburg,  Mass.,  caused  a  disastrous 
flood,  costing  one  hundred  and  forty  lives  and  the 
loss  of  $1,500,000  in  property.  The  loss  of  life 
would  have  been  far  greater  but  for  the  heroism  of 
a  milkman  named  Collins  Graves,  who  rode  for 
ward  in  front  of  the  flood,  giving  warning. 


THE   RIDE   OF   COLLINS  GRAVES 

[May  16,  1874] 

No  song  of  a  soldier  riding  down 
To  the  raging  fight  from  Winchester  town; 
No  song  of  a  time  that  shook  the  earth 
With  the  nations'  throe  at  a  nation's  birth; 
But  the  song  of  a  brave  man,  free  from 

fear 

As  Sheridan's  self  or  Paul  Revere; 
Who  risked  what  they  risked,  free  from  strife 
And  its  promise  of  glorious  pay,  —  his  life ! 

The  peaceful  valley  has  waked  and  stirred. 
And  the  answering  echoes  of  life  are  heard; 
The  dew  still  clings  to  the  trees  and  grass, 
And  the  early  toilers  smiling  pass, 
As   they  glance  aside  at   the  white-walled 

homes, 

Or  up  the  valley,  where  merrily  comes 
The  brook  that  sparkles  in  diamond  rills 
As  the  sun  comes  over  the  Hampshire  hills. 

What  was  it  passed  like  an  ominous  breath  — 
Like  a  shiver  of  fear,  or  a  touch  of  death  ? 
What  was  it  ?    The  valley  is  peaceful  still. 
And  the  leaves  are  afire  on  top  of  the  hill; 
It  was  not  a  sound,  nor  a  thing  of  sense.  — 
But  a  pain,  like  the  pang  of  the  short  sus 
pense 

That  thrills  the  being  of  those  who  see 
At  their  feet  the  gulf  of  Eternity. 

The  air  of  the  valley  has  felt  the  chill; 
The   workers    pause    at    the   door    of    the 
mill: 


572 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  housewife,  keen  to  the  shivering  air, 
Arrests  her  foot  on  the  cottage  stair, 
Instinctive  taught  by  the  mother-love, 
And  thinks  of  the  sleeping  ones  above. 

Why  start  the  listeners  ?  Why  does  the  course 
Of  the  mill-stream  widen  ?    Is  it  a  horse  — 
"  Hark  to  the  sound  of  the  hoofs ! "  they  say  — 
That  gallops  so  wildly  Williamsburg  way  ? 

God!  what  was  that,  like  a  human  shriek 
From  the  winding  valley  ?  Will  nobody  speak  ? 
Will  nobody  answer  those  women  who  cry 
As  the  awful  warnings  thunder  by  ? 

Whence  come  they?    Listen!  and  now  they 

hear 

The  sound  of  the  galloping  horse-hoofs  near; 
They  watch  the  trend  of  the  vale,  and  see 
The  rider  who  thunders  so  menacingly. 
With  waving  arms  and  warning  scream 
To  the  home-filled  banks  of  the  valley  stream. 
He  draws  no  rein,  but  he  shakes  the  street 
With  a  shout  and  the  ring  of  the  galloping  feet, 
And  this  the  cry  he  flings  to  the  wind,  — 
"  To  the  hills  for  your  lives  J  The  flood  is 

behind!" 

He  cries  and  is  gone,  but  they  know  the 

worst,  — 

The  breast  of  the  Williamsburg  dam  has  burst ! 
The  basin  that  nourished  their  happy  homes 
Is  changed  to  a  demon.  It  comes !  it  comes ! 


A  monster  in  aspect,  with  shaggy  front 
Of  shattered  dwellings  to  take  the  brunt 
Of  the  homes  they  shatter;  —  white-maned 

and  hoarse, 

The  merciless  Terror  fills  the  course 
Of  the  narrow  valley,  and  rushing  raves, 
With  death  on  the  first  of  its  hissing  waves, 
Till  cottage  and  street  and  crowded  mill 
Are  crumbled  and  crushed. 

But  onward  still, 

In  front  of  the  roaring  flood,  is  heard 
The  galloping  horse  and  the  warning  word. 
Thank  God!  the  brave  man's  life  is  spared! 
From  Williamsburg  town  he  nobly  dared 
To  race  with  the  flood,  and  take  the  road 
In  front  of  the  terrible  swath  it  mowed. 

For    miles   it   thundered    and    crashed    be 
hind, 

But  he  looked  ahead  with  a  steadfast  mind: 
"They  must  be  warned!"  was  all  he  said, 
As  away  on  his  terrible  ride  he  sped. 

When  heroes  are  called  for,  bring  the  crown 

To  this  Yankee  rider;  send  him  down 

On   the  stream   of   time  with    the    Curtius 

old; 
His  deed,  as  the  Roman's,  was  brave  and 

bold; 

And  the  tale  can  as  noble  a  thrill  awake, 
For   he   offered    his    life    for   the    people's 

sake! 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


CHAPTER   II 


THE  YEAR    OF   A   HUNDRED   YEARS 


The  year  1 876  marked  the  completion  of  the 
first  century  of  independence,  and  it  was  decided 
to  celebrate  it  in  a  worthy  manner.  The  city  of 
Philadelphia,  where  the  country  had  been  born, 
was  fittingly  selected  as  the  place  for  the  celebra 
tion. 

OUR   FIRST  CENTURY 

IT  cannot  be  that  men  who  are  the  seed 
Of  Washington  should  miss  fame's  true 

applause ; 
Franklin  did  plan  us;    Marshall   gave   us 

laws; 
And  slow  the  broad  scroll  grew  a  people's 

creed  — 
Union  and  Liberty!  then  at  our  need, 


Time's  challenge  coming,  Lincoln  gave  it 

pause, 

Upheld  the  double  pillars  of  the  cause, 
And  dying  left  them  whole  —  our  crowning 

deed. 

Such  was  the  fathering  race  that  made  all 

fast, 

Who  founded  us,  and  spread  from  sea  to  sea 
A  thousand  leagues  the  zone  of  liberty. 
And  built  for  man  this  refuge  from  his  past, 
Unkinged,unchurched,unsoldiered ;  shamed 

were  we. 

Failing  the  stature  that  such  sires  forecast! 
GEORGE  EDWAKD  WOODBEREY. 


THE   CENTENNIAL   MEDITATION   OF   COLUMBIA 


573 


The  celebration  took  the  form  of  a  great  indus 
trial  exposition,  at  which  the  arts  and  industries 
of  the  whole  world  were  represented.  The  expo 
sition  was  opened  on  May  10,  1876,  more  than  a 
hundred  thousand  people  being  present.  Wagner 
had  composed  a  march  for  the  occasion  and 
Whittier's  "  Centennial  Hymn "  was  sung  by  a 
chorus  of  a  thousand  voices. 

CENTENNIAL   HYMN 


OUR  fathers'  God !  from  out  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening  one. 


Here,  where  of  old,  by  Thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  Thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 


Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 

IV 

Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfil 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 


For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee;  but.  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold ! 

VI 

Oh  make  Thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  Thy  righteous  law: 


And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB. 

"  The  restored  South  chanted  the  praises  of  the 
Union  in  the  words  of  Sidney  Lanier,  the  Georgia 
poet."  The  poem  was  written  as  a  cantata,  the 
music  for  which  was  composed  by  Dudley  Buck. 

THE   CENTENNIAL  MEDITATION 
OF   COLUMBIA1 

1776-1876 

FROM  this  hundred-terraced  height, 
Sight  more  large  with  nobler  light 
Ranges  down  yon  towering  years. 
Humbler  smiles  and  lordlier  tears 
Shine  and  fall,  shine  and  fall, 
While  old  voices  rise  and  call 
Yonder  where  the  to-and-fro 
Weltering  of  my  Long-Ago 
Moves  about  the  moveless  base 
Far  below  my  resting-place. 

Mayflower,  Mayflower,  slowly  hither  flying, 
Trembling  westward  o'er  yon  balking  sea. 
Hearts  within  Farewell  dear  England  sighing, 
Winds  without  But  dear  in  vain  replying, 
Gray-lipp'd  waves  about  thee  shouted,  crying 
"No!   It  shall  not  be!" 

Jamestown,  out  of  thee  — 
Plymouth,  thee  —  thee,  Albany  — 
Winter  cries,  Ye  freeze :  away ! 
Fever  cries,  Ye  burn :  away ! 
Hunger  cries,  Ye  starve:  away! 
Vengeance  cries,  Your  graves  shall  stay! 

Then  old  Shapes  and  Masks  of  Things, 
Framed  like  Faiths  or  clothed  like  Kings, 
Ghosts  of  Goods  once  fleshed  and  fair, 
Grown  foul  Bads  in  alien  air  — 
War,  and  his  most  noisy  lords, 
Tongued  with  lithe  and  poisoned  swords  — 
Error,  Terror,  Rage,  and  Crime, 
All  in  a  windy  night  of  time 
Cried  to  me  from  land  and  sea, 
No  I  Thou  shalt  not  be! 

Hark! 

Huguenots  whispering  yea  in  the  dark, 
Puritans  answering  yea  in  the  dark ! 

1  From  Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier;  copyright, 
1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier;  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


574 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Yea  like  an  arrow  shot  true  to  his  mark. 
Darts  through  the  tyrannous  heart  of  Denial. 
Patience  and  Labor  and  solemn-souled  Trial , 
Foiled,  still  beginning, 
Soiled,  but  not  sinning, 
Toil  through  the  stertorous  death  of  the  Night, 
Toil  when  wild  brother-wars  new-dark  the 

Light, 

Toil,   and   forgive,   and   kiss   o'er,   and   re- 
plight. 

Now  Praise  to  God's  oft-granted  grace, 
Now  Praise  to  Man's  undaunted  face, 
Despite  the  land,  despite  the  sea, 
I  was :  I  am :  and  I  shall  be  — 
How  long,  Good  Angel,  O  how  long? 
Sing  me  from  Heaven  a  man's  own  song ! 

"Long  as  thine  Art  shall  love  true  love, 
Long  as  thy  Science  truth  shall  know, 
Long  as  thine  Eagle  harms  no  Dove, 
Long  as  thy  Law  by  law  shall  grow, 
Long  as  thy  God  is  God  above, 
Thy  brother  every  man  below. 
So  long,  dear  Land  of  all  my  love, 
Thy  name  shall  shine,  thy  fame  shall  glow!" 

O  Music,  from  this  height  of  time  my  Word 

unfold : 
In  thy  large  signals  all  men's  hearts  Man's 

heart  behold: 
Mid-heaven   unroll   thy  chords  as  friendly 

flags  unfurled. 
And  wave  the  world's  best  lover's  welcome 

to  the  world. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

President  Grant  then  declared  the  exposition 
open.  It  was  a  success  from  the  very  start,  and 
great  crowds  were  every  day  in  attendance. 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN 

1876 

THROUGH  calm  and  storm  the  years  have 
led 

Our  nation  on,  from  stage  to  stage  — 
A  century's  space  —  until  we  tread 

The  threshold  of  another  age. 

We  see  where  o'er  our  pathway  swept 
A  torrent-stream  of  blood  and  fire, 

And  thank  the  Guardian  Power  who  kept 
Our  sacred  League  of  States  entire. 


Oh,  chequered  train  of  years,  farewell! 

With  all  thy  strifes  and  hopes  and  fears! 
Yet  with  us  let  thy  memories  dwell, 

To  warn  and  teach  the  coming  years. 

And  thou,  the  new-beginning  age, 
Warned  by  the  past,  and  not  in  vain, 

Write  on  a  fairer,  whiter  page, 
The  record  of  thy  happier  reign. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


On  July  4, 1876,  simple  but  impressive  exercises 
were  held  in  the  public  square  in  the  rear  of  Inde 
pendence  Hall,  where,  a  century  before,  a  great 
throng  had  awaited  the  promulgation  of  the  "De 
claration." 

WELCOME  TO  THE   NATIONS 

PHILADELPHIA,  JULY   4,  1876 

BRIGHT  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose 
Lo!  the  last  sun  of  our  century  sets! 
Wreathe  the  black  cannon  that  scowled  on  our 

foes. 

All  but  her  friendships  the  nation  forgets! 
All  but  her  friends  and  their  welcome  for 
gets! 
These  are  around  her;  but  where  are  her 

foes  ? 

Lo,  while  the  sun  of  her  century  sets, 
Peace  with  her  garlands  of  lily  and  rose! 

Welcome !  a  shout  like  the  war  trumpet's  swell 

Wakes  the  wild  echoes  that  slumber  around ! 
Welcome!  it  quivers  from  Liberty's  bell; 

Welcome!  the  walls  of  her  temple  resound ! 

Hark !  the  gray  walls  of  her  temple  resound ! 
Fade  the  far  voices  o'er  hillside  and  dell; 

Welcome!  still  whisper  the  echoes  around; 
Welcome!  still  trembles  on  Liberty's  bell! 

Thrones  of  the  continent!  isles  of  the  sea! 

Yours  are  the  garlands  of  peace  we  entwine; 
Welcome,  once  more,  to  the  land  of  the  free, 

Shadowed  alike  by  the  palm  and  the  pine; 

Softly  they  murmur,  the  palm  and  the  pine, 
"Hushed  is  our  strife,  in  the  land  of  the  free;" 

Over  your  children  their  branches  entwine 
Thrones  of  the  continents!  isles  of  the  sea! 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE 


575 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE 

INDEPENDENCE    SQUARE,    PHILADELPHIA, 
JULY  4,  1876 

I  — 1 

SUN  of  the  stately  Day, 
Let  Asia  into  the  shadow  drift, 
Let  Europe  bask  in  thy  ripened  ray, 
And  over  the  severing  ocean  lift 
A  brow  of  broader  splendor! 
Give  light  to  the  eager  eyes 
Of  the  Land  that  waits  to  behold  thee  rise; 
The  gladness  of  morning  lend  her. 
With  the  triumph  of  noon  attend  her, 
And  the  peace  of  the  vesper  skies ! 

For,  lo!  she  cometh  now 
With  hope  on  the  lip  and  pride  on  the  brow, 
Stronger,  and  dearer,  and  fairer. 
To  smile  on  the  love  we  bear  her,  — 
To  live,  as  we  dreamed  her  and  sought  her, 

Liberty's  latest  daughter ! 
In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  in  the  secret  places, 

We  found  her  traces; 
On  the  hills,  in  the  crash  of  woods  that  fall, 

We  heard  her  call; 
When  the  lines  of  battle  broke, 
We  saw  her  face  in  the  fiery  smoke; 
Through  toil,  and  anguish,  and  desolation, 

We  followed,  and  found  her 
With  the  grace  of  a  virgin  Nation 
As  a  sacred  zone  around  her! 

Who  shall  rejoice 
With  a  righteous  voice, 
Far-heard  through  the  ages,  if  not  she? 
For  the  menace  is  dumb  that  defied  her, 
The  doubt  is  dead  that  denied  her, 
And  she  stands  acknowledged,  and  strong, 
and  free! 

ii  —  1    • 

Ah,  hark!  the  solemn  undertone, 
On  every  wind  of  human  story  blown. 

A  large,  divinely-moulded  Fate 
Questions  the  right  and  purpose  of  a  State, 

And  in  its  plan  sublime 
Our  eras  are  the  dust  of  Time. 
The  far-off  Yesterday  of  power 

Creeps  back  with  stealthy  feet, 
Invades  the  lordship  of  the  hour. 
And  at  our  banquet  takes  the  unbidden  seat. 
From  all  unchronicled  and  silent  ages 
Before  the  Future  first  begot  the  Past, 

Till  History  dared,  at  last, 
To  write  eternal  words  on  granite  pages; 


From  Egypt's  tawny  drift,  and  Assur's  mound, 
And  where,  uplifted  white  and  far, 
Earth  highest  yearns  to  meet  a  star, 
And  Man  his  manhood  by  the  Ganges  found, — 
Imperial  heads,  of  old  millennial  sway, 

And  still  by  some  pale  splendor  crowned, 
Chill  as  a  corpse-light  in  our  full-orbed  day, 

In  ghostly  grandeur  rise 
And  say,  through  stony  lips  and  vacant  eyes: 
"Thou   that  assertest  freedom,  power,  and 

fame, 
Declare  to  us  thy  claim!" 

1  —  2 

On  the  shores  of  a  Continent  cast, 

She  won  the  inviolate  soil 
By  loss  of  heirdom  of  all  the  Past, 
And  faith  in  the  royal  right  of  Toil! 
She  planted  homes  on  the  savage  sod : 
Into  the  wilderness  lone 
She  walked  with  fearless  feet, 
In  her  hand  the  divining-rod, 
Till  the  veins  of  the  mountains  beat 
With  fire  of  metal  and  force  of  stone ! 
She  set  the  speed  of  the  river-head 
To  turn  the  mills  of  her  bread; 
She  drove  her  ploughshare  deep 
Through    the    prairie's    thousand-centuried 

sleep, 

To  the  South,  and  WTest,  and  North, 
She  called  Pathfinder  forth, 
Her  faithful  and  sole  companion 
Where  the  flushed  Sierra,  snow-starred, 

Her  way  to  the  sunset  barred, 
And  the  nameless  rivers  in  thunder  and  foam 
Channelled  the  terrible  canyon ! 
Nor  paused,  till  her  uttermost  home 
Was  built,  in  the  smile  of  a  softer  sky 
And  the  glory  of  beauty  still  to  be, 
Where  the  haunted  waves  of  Asia  die 
On  the  strand  of  the  world-wide  sea! 

ii  — 2 

The  race,  in  conquering, 
Some  fierce,  Titanic  joy  of  conquest  knows; 

Whether  in  veins  of  serf  or  king, 
Our  ancient  blood  beats  restless  in  repose. 

Challenge  of  Nature  unsubdued 
Awaits  not  Man's  defiant  answer  long; 

For  hardship,  even  as  wrong, 
Provokes  the  level-eyed  heroic  mood. 
This  for  herself  she  did ;  but  that  which  lies, 

As  over  earth  the  skies, 
Blending  all  forms  in  one  benignant  glow, — 

Crowned  conscience,  tender  care, 


576 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Justice  that  answers  every  bondman's  prayer, 

Freedom  where  Faith  may  lead  and  Thought 

may  dare, 

The  power  of  minds  that  know, 
Passion  of  hearts  that  feel, 
Purchased  by  blood  and  woe, 
Guarded  by  fire  and  steel,  — 

Hath  she  secured  ?  What  blazon  on  her  shield, 
In  the  clear  Century's  light 
Shines  to  the  world  revealed, 

Declaring  nobler  triumph,  born  of  Right? 

1  —  3 

Foreseen  in  the  vision  of  sages, 
Foretold  when  martyrs  bled, 
She  was  born  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
And  the  faith  of  the  living  fed ! 
No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 
The  unblenching  Puritan  will, 
Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace, 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And   the  strength   of    the    danger-girdled 

race 

Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 
From  the  homes  of  all,  where  her  being  be 
gan, 

She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man; 
Justice,  that  knew  no  station, 

Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 
Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed! 

She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  her  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 
Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine; 
Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine; 
Her  France  pursues  some  dream  divine; 
Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine; 

And,  broad-based  under  all, 
Is  planted   England's  oaken-hearted  mood, 

As  rich  in  fortitude 

As  e'er   went  worldward   from  the  island- 
wall! 

Fused  in  her  candid  light, 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite: 
Tongues  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  foemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan: 

'T  was  glory,  once,  to  be  a  Roman : 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  man ! 


ii  — 3 
Bow  down ! 
Doff  thine  seonian  crown! 

One  hour  forget 
The  glory,  and  recall  the  debt: 
Make  expiation, 
Of  humbler  mood, 
For  the  pride  of  thine  exultation 
O'er  peril  conquered  and  strife  subdued; 
But  half  the  right  is  wrested 

When  victory  yields  her  prize, 
And  half  the  marrow  tested 

When  old  endurance  dies. 
In  the  sight  of  them  that  love  thee, 
Bow  to  the  Greater  above  thee! 

He  faileth  not  to  smite 
The  idle  ownership  of  Right, 
Nor  spares  to  sinews  fresh  from  trial, 
And  virtue  schooled  in  long  denial, 

The  tests  that  wait  for  thee 
In  larger  perils  of  prosperity. 

Here,  at  the  Century's  awful  shrine, 
Bow  to  thy  Father's  God,  and  thine! 

1  —  4 

Behold !  she  bendeth  now, 
Humbling  the  chaplet  of  her  hundred  yeare 
There  is  a  solemn  sweetness  on  her  brow. 
And  in  her  eyes  are  sacred  tears. 

Can  she  forget, 

In  present  joy,  the  burden  of  her  debt, 
When  for  a  captive  race 
She  grandly  staked,  and  won, 
The  total  promise  of  her  power  begun, 

And  bared  her  bosom's  grace 
To  the  sharp  wound  that  inly  tortures  yet? 

Can  she  forget 
The  million  graves  her  young  devotion  set, 

The  hands  that  clasp  above, 
From  either  side,  in  sad,  returning  love? 

Can  she  forget, 
Here,  where  the  Ruler  of  to-day. 

The  Citizen  of  to-morrow, 
And  equal  thousands  to  rejoice  and  pray 

Beside  these  holy  walls  are  met, 
Her  birth-cry,  mixed   of  keenest  bliss  and 

sorrow  ? 

Where,  on  July's  immortal  morn 
Held  forth,  the  People  saw  her  head 
And  shouted  to  the  world:    "The  King  is 

dead. 

But,  lo !  the  Heir  is  born ! " 
When  fire  of  Youth,  and  sober  trust  of  Age, 
In  Farmer,  Soldier,  Priest,  and  Sage, 
Arose  and  cast  upon  her 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE 


577 


Baptismal  garments,  —  never  robes  so  fair 

Clad  prince  in  Old-World  air,  — 
Their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred 
honor! 

ii  — 4 

Arise!    Recrown  thy  head, 
Radiant  with  blessings  of  the  Dead! 

Bear  from  this  hallowed  place 
The  prayer  that  purifies  thy  lips, 
The  light  of  courage  that  defies  eclipse, 
The  rose  of  Man's  new  morning  on  thy  face ! 

Let  no  iconoclast 

Invade  thy  rising  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
To  make  a  blank  where  Adarns  stood, 
To  touch  the  Father's  sheathed  and  sacred 

blade, 

Spoil  crowns  on  Jefferson  and  Franklin  laid, 
Or  wash  from   Freedom's  feet  the  stain  of 

Lincoln's  blood! 
Hearken,  as  from  that  haunted  Hall 

Their  voices  call: 
"We  lived  and  died  for  thee; 
We  greatly  dared  that  thou  might'st  be: 

So,  from  thy  children  still 
We  claim  denials  which  at  last  fulfil, 
And  freedom  yielded  to  preserve  thee  free ! 

Beside  clear-hearted  Right 
That  smiles  at  Power's  uplifted  rod, 

Plant  Duties  that  requite, 
And  Order  that  sustains,  upon  thy  sod, 

And  stand  in  stainless  might 
Above  all  self,  and  only  less  than  God! 

in  — 1 

Here  may  thy  solemn  challenge  end, 
All-proving  Past,  and  each  discordance  die 

Of  doubtful  augury, 
Or  in  one  choral  with  the  Present,  blend, 

And  that  half-heard,  sweet  harmony 
Of  something  nobler  that  our  sons  may  see ! 

Though  poignant  memories  burn 
Of  days  that  were,  and  may  again  return, 
When  thy  fleet  foot,  O  Huntress  of  the 

Woods, 
The  slippery  brinks  of  danger  knew, 

And  dim  the  eyesight  grew 
That  was  so  sure  in  thine  old  solitudes,  — 

Yet  stays  some  richer  sense 
Won  from  the  mixture  of  thine  elements, 

To  guide  the  vagrant  scheme, 
And  winnow  truth  from  each  conflicting 

dream ! 

Yet  in  thy  blood  shall  live 
Some  force  unspent,  some  essence  primitive, 


To  seize  the  highest  use  of  things; 
For  P'ate,  to  mould  thee  to  her  plan, 

Denied  thee  food  of  kings. 
Withheld  the  udder  and  the  orchard-fruits, 

Fed  thee  with  savage  roots, 
And  forced  thy    harsher  milk    from  barren 
breasts  of  man! 

in  —  2 

O  sacred  Woman-Form, 
Of  the  first   People's  need    and    passion 

wrought,  — 

No  thin,  pale  ghost  of  Thought, 
But  fair  as  Morning  and  as  heart's-blood 

warm,  — 

Wearing  thy  priestly  tiar  on  Judah's  hills; 
Clear-eyed  beneath  Athene's  helm  of  gold ; 

Or  from  Rome's  central  seat 
Hearing  the  pulses  of  the  Continents  beat 

In  thunder  where  her  legions  rolled ; 
Compact  of  high  heroic  hearts  and  wills, 

Whose  being  circles  all 
The  selfless  aims  of  men,  and  all  fulfils; 
Thyself  not  free,  so  long  as  one  is  thrall; 
Goddess,  that  as  a  Nation  lives, 

And  as  a  Nation  dies, 
That  for  her  children  as  a  man  defies, 
And  to  her  children  as  a  mother  gives,  — 

Take  our  fresh  fealty  now! 
No  more  a  Chieftainess,  with  wampum- 
zone 

And  feather-cinctured  brow,  — 
No  more  a  new  Britannia,  grown 
To  spread  an  equal  banner  to  the  breeze,. 
And  lift  thy  trident  o'er  the  double  seas; 

But  with  unborrowed  crest, 
In  thine  own  native  beauty  dressed,  — 
The  front  of  pure  command,  the  unflinching, 
eye,  thine  own ! 

m  — 3 

Look  up,  look  forth,  and  on ! 

There's  light  in  the  dawning  sky: 
The  clouds  are  parting,  the  night  is  gone: 

Prepare  for  the  work  of  the  day! 

Fallow  thy  pastures  lie, 

And  far  thy  shepherds  stray, 
And  the  fields  of  thy  vast  domain 

Are  waiting  for  purer  seed 

Of  knowledge,  desire,  and  deed, 
For  keener  sunshine  and  mellower  rain ! 

But  keep  thy  garments  pure: 
Pluck  them  back,  with  the  old  disdain, 

From  touch  of  the  hands  that  stain! 

So  shall  thy  strength  endure. 


578 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Transmute  into  good  the  gold  of  Gain, 
Compel  to  beauty  thy  ruder  powers, 
Till  the  bounty  of  coming  hours 
Shall  plant,  on  thy  fields  apart. 
With  the  oak  of  Toil,  the  rose  of  Art! 
Be  watchful,  and  keep  us  so: 
Be  strong,  and  fear  no  foe: 
Be  just,  and  the  world  shall  know ! 
With  the  same  love  love  us,  as  we  give; 
And  the  day  shall  never  come, 
That  finds  us  weak  or  dumb 
To  join  and  smite  and  cry 
In  the  great  task,  for  thee  to  die, 
And  the  greater  task,  for  thee  to  live! 
BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


Richard  Henry  Lee,  grandson  of  the  mover  of 
the  Declaration,  came  to  the  front  with  the 
original  document  in  his  hands,  and  read  its 
sonorous  sentences.  William  M.  Evarts  delivered 
an  oration  and  "Our  National  Banner,"  words  by 
Dexter  Smith,  music  by  Sir  Julius  Benedict,  was 
Jung. 

OUR  NATIONAL  BANNER 

IJuly4,  1876] 

O'ER  the  high  and  o'er  the  lowly 
Floats  that  banner  bright  and  holy 

In  the  rays  of  Freedom's  sun, 
In  the  nation's  heart  embedded, 
O'er  our  Union  newly  wedded, 

One  in  all.  and  all  in  one. 

Let  that  banner  wave  forever, 
May  its  lustrous  stars  fade  never, 

Till  the  stars  shall  pale  on  high; 
While  there's  right  the  wrong  defeating, 
While  there's  hope  in  true  hearts  beat 
ing. 

Truth  and  freedom  shall  not  die. 

As  it  floated  long  before  us, 
Be  it  ever  floating  o'er  us, 

O'er  our  land  from  shore  to  shore: 
There  are  freemen  yet  to  wave  it, 
Millions  who  would  die  to  save  it, 

Wave  it,  save  it,  evermore. 

DEXTER  SMITH. 


The  exposition  closed  November  10,  1876.  It 
had  served  to  draw  all  sections  of  the  country  more 
closely  together,  and  to  establish  the  industrial 
position  of  the  United  States  among  the  nations 
of  the  world. 

AFTER  THE   CENTENNIAL 

(A  HOPE) 

BEFORE  our  eyes  a  pageant  rolled 
Whose  banners  every  land  unfurled; 

And  as  it  passed,  its  splendors  told 
The  art  and  glory  of  the  world. 

The  nations  of  the  earth  have  stood 
With  face  to  face  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  sworn  to  common  brotherhood 
The  sundered  souls  of  every  land. 

And  while  America  is  pledged 

To  light  her  Pharos  towers  for  all, 

While  her  broad  mantle,  starred  and  edged 
With  truth,  o'er  high  and  low  shall  fall; 

And  while  the  electric  nerves  still  belt 
The  State  and  Continent  in  one,  — 

The  discords  of  the  past  shall  melt 
Like  ice  beneath  the  summer  sun. 

O  land  of  hope!  thy  future  years 
Are  shrouded  from  our  mortal  sight; 

But  thou  canst  turn  the  century's  fears 
To  heralds  of  a  cloudless  light! 

The  sacred  torch  our  fathers  lit 
No  wild  misrule  can  ever  quench; 

Still  in  our  midst  wise  judges  sit, 
Whom  party  passion  cannot  blench. 

From  soul  to  soul,  from  hand  to  hand 
Thy  sons  have  passed  that  torch  along, 

W7hose  flame  by  Wisdom's  breath  is  fanned 
Whose  staff  is  held  by  runners  strong. 

O  Spirit  of  immortal  truth. 
Thy  power  alone  that  circles  all 

Can  feed  the  fire  as  in  its  youth  — 
Can  hold  the  runners  lest  they  fall ! 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 


AFTER  THE   COMANCHES 


579 


CHAPTER   III 


THE   CONQUEST   OF   THE  PLAINS 


The  Indians  had  long  since  ceased  to  be  a  serious 
menace  to  the  United  States,  and  the  policy  of  the 
government  for  many  years  had  been  to  settle 
them  upon  various  selected  tracts  of  land  west  of 
the  Mississippi.  But  the  population  of  the  West 
was  increasing  very  rapidly,  the  completion  of  the 
railway  to  the  Pacific  having  given  it  a  great 
impetus. 

THE  PACIFIC  RAILWAY 

FINISHED,  MAY  10,  1869 
"  And  a  Highway  shall  there  be." 

'T  is  "Done"  —  the  wondrous  thorough 
fare 

Type  of  that  Highway  all  divine! 
No  ancient  wonder  can  compare 

With  this,  in  grandeur  of  design. 
For,  't  was  no  visionary  scheme 

To  immortalize  the  builder's  name; 
No  impulse  rash,  no  transient  dream 

Of  some  mere  worshipper  of  Fame. 

Rare  common  sense  conceived  the  plan, 

For  working  out  a  lasting  good  — 
The  full  development  of  Man; 

The  growth  of  human  brotherhood ! 
And  lo!  by  patient  toil  and  care, 

The  work  with  rare  success  is  crowned; 
And  nations,  yet  to  be,  will  share 

In  blessings  that  shall  e'er  abound. 

Across  a  continent's  expanse, 

The  lengthening  track  now  runs  secure, 
O'er  which  the  Iron  Horse  shall  prance, 

So  long  as  earth  and  time  endure! 
His  course  extends  from  East  to  West  — 

From  where  Atlantic  billows  roar, 
To  where  the  quiet  waters  rest, 

Beside  the  far  Pacific  shore. 

Proud  commerce,  by  Atlantic  gales 

Tossed  to  and  fro,  —  her  canvas  rent  — 
Will  gladly  furl  her  wearied  sails, 

And  glide  across  a  continent. 
Through  smiling  valleys,  broad  and  free, 

O'er  rivers  wide,  or  mountain-crest, 
Her  course  shall  swift  and  peaceful  be, 

Till  she  has  reached  the  farthest  West. 


And  e'en  the  treasures  of  the  East, 

Diverted  from  their  wonted  track,  — 
With  safety  gained,  with  speed  increased,  - 

Will  follow  in  her  footsteps  back. 
And  thus  the  Nations,  greatly  blest, 

Will  share  another  triumph,  won, 
That  links  yet  closer  East  and  West  — 

The  rising  and  the  setting  sun! 

This  glorious  day  with  joy  we  greet! 

May  Faith  abound,  may  Love  increase, 
And  may  this  highway,  now  complete, 

Be  the  glad  harbinger  of  Peace! 
God  bless  the  Work,  that  it  may  prove 

The  source  of  greater  good  in  store, 
When  Man  shall  heed  the  law  of  Love, 

And  Nations  shall  learn  war  no  more. 
C.  R.  BALLAED. 


During  the  autumn  of  1 874,  gold  was  discovered 
in  the  Black  Hills  Sioux  reservation  and  explorers 
rushed  in;  a  still  worse  grievance  was  the  wanton 
destruction  of  bison  by  hunters  and  excursionists. 
Driven  to  freney,  at  last,  tribe  after  tribe  of  sav 
ages  took  up  arms,  and  started  on  a  career  of 
murder  and  rapine. 


AFTER  THE  COMANCHES 

SADDLE!  saddle!  saddle! 

Mount,  mount,  and  away! 
Over  the  dim  green  prairie. 

Straight  on  the  track  of  day; 
Spare  not  spur  for  mercy, 

Hurry  with  shout  and  thong, 
Fiery  and  tough  is  the  mustang, 

The  prairie  is  wide  and  long. 

Saddle!  saddle!  saddle! 

Leap  from  the  broken  door, 
Where  the  brute  Comanche  entered, 

And  the  white-foot  treads  no  more! 
The  hut  is  burnt  to  ashes, 

There  are  dead  men  stark  outside, 
And  only  a  long  torn  ringlet 

Left  of  the  stolen  bride. 

Go  like  the  east  wind's  howling, 
Ride  with  death  behind, 


580 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Stay  not  for  food  or  slumber, 
Till  the  thieving  wolves  ye  find ! 

They  came  before  the  wedding, 
Swifter  than  prayer  or  priest; 

The  bride-men  danced  to  bullets, 
The  wild  dogs  ate  the  feast. 

Look  to  rifle  and  powder, 

Buckle  the  knife-belt  sure; 
Loose  the  coil  of  the  lasso, 

And  make  the  loop  secure; 
Fold  the  flask  in  the  poncho, 

Fill  the  pouch  with  maize, 
And  ride  as  if  to-morrow 

Were  the  last  of  living  days. 

Saddle!  saddle!  saddle! 

Redden  spur  and  thong, 
Ride  like  the  mad  tornado, 

The  track  is  lonely  and  long, 
Spare  not  horse  nor  rider, 

Fly  for  the  stolen  bride! 
Bring  her  home  on  the  crupper, 

A  scalp  on  either  side. 

It  was  decided  to  transfer  the  Sioux  to  another 
reservation,  but,  under  the  advice  of  Sitting  Bull, 
they  refused  to  stir.  A  detachment  under  Lieu 
tenant-Colonel  George  A.  Custer  was  sent  against 
them,  and  came  suddenly  upon  their  encampment 
on  June  25,  1876.  A  terrific  fight  followed,  in 
which  Custer  and  all  of  his  men  were  killed. 

DOWN  THE  LITTLE   BIG  HORN 

June  25,  1876 

DOWN  the  Little  Big  Horn 

(O  troop  forlorn!), 

Right  into  the  camp  of  the  Sioux 

(What  was  the  muster?), 

Two  hundred  and  sixty-two 

Went  into  the  fight  with  Custer, 

Went  out  of  the  fight  with  Custer, 

Went  out  at  a  breath, 

Stanch  to  the  death ! 

Just  from  the  canyon  emerging. 

Saw  they  the  braves  of  Sitting  Bull  surging, 

Two  thousand  and  more, 

Painted  and  feathered,  thirsting  for  gore, 

Did  they  shrink  and  turn  back 

(Hear  how  the  rifles  crack!), 

Did  they  pause  for  a  life. 

For  a  sweetheart  or  wife  ? 

And  one  in  that  savage  throng 
(His  revenge  had  waited  long), 


Pomped  with  porcupine  quills, 

His  deerskins  beaded  and  fringed, 

An  eagle's  plume  in  his  long  black  hair, 

His  tall  lance  fluttering  in  the  air, 

Glanced  at  the  circling  hills  — 

His  cheeks  flushed  with  a  keen  surmise, 

A  demon's  hate  in  his  eyes 

Remembering  the  hour  when  he  cringed, 

A  prisoner  thonged, 

Chief  Rain-in-the-Face 

(There  was  a  sachem  wronged !) 

Saw  his  enemy's  heart  laid  bare, 

Feasted  in  thought  like  a  beast  in  his  lair. 

Cavalry,  cavalry 

(Tramp  of  the  hoof,  champ  of  the  bit), 

Horses  prancing,  cavorting, 

Shying  and  snorting. 

Accoutrements  rattling 

(Children  at  home  are  prattling), 

Gallantly,  gallantly, 

"Company  dismount!" 

From  the  saddle  they  swing, 

With  their  steeds  form  a  ring 

(Hear  how  the  bullets  sing!), 

Who  can  their  courage  recount  ? 

Do  you  blanch  at  their  fate  ? 

(Who  would  hesitate?) 

Two  hundred  and  sixty-two 

Immortals  in  blue, 

Standing  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

Like  some  granite  boulder 

You  must  blast  to  displace 

(Were  they  of  a  valiant  race  ?)  — 

Two  hundred  and  sixty-two, 

And  never  a  man  to  say, 

"I  rode  with  Custer  that  day." 

Give  the  savage  his  triumph  and  bluster. 

Give  the  hero  to  perish  with  Custer, 

To  his  God  and  his  comrades  true. 

Closing  and  closing, 

Nearer  the  redskins  creep; 

With  cunning  disposing. 

With  yell  and  with  whoop 

(There  are  women  shall  weep!), 

They  gather  and  swoop, 

They  come  like  a  flood, 

Maddened  with  blood, 

They  shriek,  plying  the  knife 

(Was  there  one  begged  for  his  life?), 

Where  but  a  moment  ago 

Stood  serried  and  sternly  the  foe, 

Now  fallen,  mangled  below. 


LITTLE  BIG  HORN 


581 


Down  the  Little  Big  Horn 
(Tramp  of  the  hoof,  champ  of  the  bit). 
A  single  steed  in  the  morn, 
Comanche,  seven  times  hit, 
Comes  to  the  river  to  drink; 
Lists  for  the  sabre's  clink, 
Li^ts  for  the  voice  of  his  master 
(O  glorious  disaster!), 
Comes,  sniffing  the  air, 
Gazing,  lifts  his  head, 
But  his  master  lies  dead. 
(Who  but  the  dead  were  there?) 
But  stay,  what  was  the  muster  ? 
Two  hundred  and  sixty -two 
(Two  thousand  and  more  the  Sioux!) 
Went  into  the  fight  with  Custer, 
Went  out  of  the  fight  with  Custer; 
For  never  a  man  can  say, 
"I  rode  with  Custer  that  day  — " 
Went  out  like  a  taper, 
Blown  by  a  sudden  vapor, 
Went  out  at  a  breath, 
True  to  the  death! 

FRANCIS  BROOKS. 

LITTLE  BIG  HORN 

[June  2  5,  1876] 

BESIDE  the  lone  river. 

That  idly  lay  dreaming, 

Flashed  sudden  the  gleaming 

Of  sabre  and  gun 

In  the  light  of  the  sun 

As  over  the  hillside  the  soldiers  came  stream 
ing- 
One  peal  of  the  bugle 

In  stillness  unbroken 

That  sounded  a  token 

Of  soul-stirring  strife, 

Savage  war  to  the  knife, 
Then  silence  that  seemed  like  defiance  un 
spoken. 

But  out  of  an  ambush 
Came  warriors  riding. 
Swift  ponies  bestriding, 
Shook  rattles  and  shells, 
With  a  discord  of  yells, 
That  fired  the  hearts  of  their  comrades  in 
hiding. 

Then  fierce  on  the  wigwams 
The  soldiers  descended, 


And  madly  were  blended, 
The  red  man  and  white 
In  a  hand-to-hand  fight, 
With  the  Indian    village   assailed   and   de 
fended. 

And  there  through  the  passage 
Of  battle-torn  spaces, 
From  dark  lurking-places, 
With  blood-curdling  cry 
And  their  knives  held  on  high, 
Rushed  Amazon  women  with  wild,  painted 
faces. 

Then  swung  the  keen  sabres 
And  Sashed  the  sure  rifles 
Their  message  that  stifles 
The  shout  in  red  throats. 
While  the  reckless  blue-coats 
Laughed  on  'mid  the  fray  as  men  laugh  over 
trifles. 

Grim  cavalry  troopers 
Unshorn  and  unshaven, 
And  never  a  craven 
In  ambuscade  caught, 
How  like  demons  they  fought 
Round  the  knoll  on  the  prairie  that  marked 
their  last  haven. 

But  the  Sioux  circled  nearer 
The  shrill  war-whoop  crying, 
And  death-hail  was  flying, 
Yet  still  they  fought  on 
Till  the  last  shot  was  gone, 
And  all  that  remained  were  the  dead  and  the 
dying. 

A  song  for  their  death,  and 
No  black  plumes  of  sorrow, 
This  recompense  borrow, 
Like  heroes  they  died 
Man  to  man  —  side  by  side ; 
We  lost  them  to-day,  we  shall  meet  tLem  to- 


And  on  the  lone  river. 
Has  faded  the  seeming 
Of  bright  armor  gleaming, 
But  there  by  the  shore 
With  the  ghosts  of  no-more 
The  shades  of  the  dead  through  the  ages  lie 
dreaming. 

ERNEST  MCGAFFEY. 


582 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


CUSTER'S  LAST   CHARGE 

[June  25,  1876] 

DEAD!  Is  it  possible ?   He,  the  bold  rider, 

Custer,  our  hero,  the  first  in  the  fight, 
Charming  the  bullets  of  yore  to  fly  wider, 

Far  from  our  battle-king's  ringlets  of  light ! 
Dead,  our  young  chieftain,  and  dead,  all  for 
saken! 

No  one  to  tell  us  the  way  of  his  fall ! 
Slain  in  the  desert,  and  never  to  waken, 

Never,  not  even  to  victory's  call! 

Proud  for  his  fame  that  last  day  that  he  met 

them! 
All  the  night  long  he  had  been  on  their 

track, 
Scorning  their  traps  and  the  men  that  had  set 

them, 
Wild  for  a  charge  that  should  never  give 

back. 
There  on  the  hilltop  he  halted  and  saw  them,  — 

Lodges  all  loosened  and  ready  to  fly; 
Hurrying  scouts  with  the  tidings  to  awe  them, 
Told  of  his  coming  before  he  was  nigh. 

All  the  wide  valley  was  full  of  their  forces, 

Gathered  to  cover  the  lodges'  retreat !  — 
Warriors  running  in  haste  to  their  horses, 

Thousands  of  enemies  close  to  his  feet ! 
Down  in  the  valleys  the  ages  had  hollowed, 

There  lay  the  Sitting  Bull's  camp  for  a  prey ! 
Numbers!    What  recked  he?    What  recked 
those  who  followed  — 

Men  who  had  fought  ten  to  one  ere  that 
day? 

Out  swept  the  squadrons,  the  fated  three 

hundred, 

Into  the  battle-line  steady  and  full; 
Then  down  the  hillside  exultingly  thundered, 

Into  the  hordes  of  the  old  Sitting  Bull ! 
Wild  Ogalallah,  Arapahoe,  Cheyenne, 

Wild  Horse's  braves,  and  the  rest  of  their 

crew, 
Shrank  from  that  charge  like  a  herd  from  a 

lion,  — 

Then  closed  around,  the  grim  horde  of  wild 
Sioux! 

Right  to  their  centre  he  charged,  and  then 

facing  — 
Hark  to  those  yells!  and  around  them,  O 


Over  the  hilltops  the  Indians  come  racing, 
Coming  as  fast  as  the  waves  of  the  sea! 

Red  was  the  circle  of  fire  around  them; 
No  hope  of  victory,  no  ray  of  light, 

Shot  through  that  terrible  black  cloud  with 
out  them, 
Brooding  in  death  over  Custer's  last  fight. 

Then  did  he  blench  ?  Did  he  die  like  a  craven, 

Begging  those  torturing  fiends  for  his  life? 
Was  there  a  soldier  who  carried  the  Seven1 

Flinched  like  a  coward  or  fled  from  the 

strife  ? 
No,  by  the  blood  of  our  Custer,  no  quailing ! 

There  in  the  midst  of  the  Indians  they 

close, 
Hemmed  in  by  thousands,  but  ever  assailing, 

Fighting  like  tigers,  all  'bayed  amid  foes! 

Thicker  and  thicker  the  bullets  came  singing; 

Down  go  the  horses  and  riders  and  all; 
Swiftly  the  warriors  round  them  were  ringing, 

Circling  like  buzzards  awaiting  their  fall. 
See  the  wild  steeds  of  the  mountain  and 
prairie, 

Savage  eyes  gleaming  from  forests  of  mane; 
Quivering  lances  with  pennons  so  airy, 

War-painted  warriors  charging  amain. 

Backward,  again  and  again,  they  were  driven, 

Shrinking  to  close  with  the  lost  little  band ; 

Never  a  cap  that  had  worn  the  bright  Seven 

Bowed    till   its  wearer  was  dead  on  the 

strand. 
Closer  and  closer  the  death  circle  growing, 

Ever  the  leader's  voice,  clarion  clear, 
Rang  out  his  words  of  encouragement  glow 
ing, 

"We  can  but  die  once,  boys,  —  we'll  sell 
our  lives  dear!" 

Dearly  they  sold  them  like  Berserkers  raging, 
Facing  the  death  that  encircled  them  round ; 
Death's  bitter  pangs  by  their  vengeance  as 
suaging, 
Marking  their  tracks  by  their  dead  on  the 

ground. 
Comrades,  our  children  shall  yet  tell  their 

story,  — 
Custer's   last  charge  on   the    old    Sitting 

Bull; 
And  ages  shall  swear  that  the  cup  of  his 

glory 

Needed  but  that  death  to  render  it  full. 
FREDERICK  WHITTAKEH. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 


583 


CUSTEB 

[June  25,  1876] 

WHAT!  shall  that  sudden  blade 
Leap  out  no  more? 

No  more  thy  hand  be  laid 
Upon  the  sword-hilt  smiting  sore  ? 
O  for  another  such 

The  charger's  rein  to  clutch,  — 
One  equal  voice  to  summon  victory. 

Sounding  thy  battle-cry, 
Brave  darling  of  the  soldiers'  choice! 

Would  there  were  one  more  voice! 

O  gallant  charge,  too  bold ! 
O  fierce,  imperious  greed 
To  pierce  the  clouds  that  in  their  darkness 

hold 
Slaughter  of  man  and  steed ! 

Now,  stark  and  cold, 
Among  thy  fallen  braves  thou  liest, 
And  even  with  thy  blood  defiest 

The  wolfish  foe: 
But  ah,  thou  liest  low, 
And  all  our  birthday  song  is  hushed  indeed! 

Young  lion  of  the  plain, 

Thou  of  the  tawny  mane! 
Hotly  the  soldiers'  hearts  shall  beat. 

Their  mouths  thy  death  repeat. 
Their  vengeance  seek  the  trail  again 

Where  thy  red  doomsmen  be; 
But  on  the  charge  no  more  shall  stream 
Thy  hair,  —  no  more  thy  sabre  gleam,  — 

No  more  ring  out  thy  battle-shout. 
Thy  cry  of  victory! 

Not  when  a  hero  falls 

The  sound  a  world  appalls: 

For  while  we  plant  his  cross 
There  is  a  glory,  even  in  the  loss: 

But  when  some  craven  heart 

From  honor  dares  to  part. 
Then,  then,  the  groan,  the  blanching  cheek, 

And  men  in  whispers  speak, 
Nor  kith  nor  country  dare  reclaim 

From  the  black  depths  his  name. 

Thou,  wild  young  warrior,  rest, 
By  all  the  prairie  winds  caressed ! 

Swift  was  thy  dying  pang; 

Even  as  the  war-cry  rang 
Thy  deathless  spirit  mounted  high 

And  sought  Columbia's  sky:  — 


There,  to  the  northward  far, 

Shines  a  new  star, 
And  from  it  blazes  down 
The  light  of  thy  renown ! 

EDMUND  CLABENCE  STEDMAN. 
July  10,  1875. 


The  Indians  were  led  by  Rain-in-the-Face.  The 
year  before,  he  had  been  arrested  by  Captain  Tom 
Ouster  at  Standing  Rock,  and  had  threatened  to 
eat  the  hitter's  heart.  The  Captain  was  among 
the  killed,  and  Rain-in-the-Face  is  said  to  have 
made  good  his  threat.  Mr.  Longfellow  is  mistaken 
in  saying  that  Colonel  George  Custer  was  thus  muti 
lated.  His  body  was  not  disfigured  in  any  way. 


THE  REVENGE   OF    RAIN-IN-THE- 
FACE 

[June  25,  1876] 

IN  that  desolate  land  and  lone. 
Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 

Roar  down  their  mountain  path, 
By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Muttered  their  woes  and  griefs 

And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

"Revenge!"  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair!' 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  reechoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  river-side 

The  Indian  village  stood; 
All  was  silent  as  a  dream, 
Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 

And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war  paint  and  his  beads, 
Like  a  bison  among  the  reeds, 

In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Lay  with  three  thousand  braves 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves, 

Savage,  unmerciful! 

Into  the  fatal  snare 

The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair 

And  his  three  hundred  men 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand; 
But  of  that  gallant  band 

Not  one  returned  again. 


584 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them  like  the  breath 

And  smoke  of  a  furnace  fire: 
By  the  river's  bank,  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine, 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 

But  the  foemen  fled  in  the  night, 
And  Rain-in-the-Face,  in  his  flight, 

Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a  ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart,  that  beat  no  more, 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong  ? 
Sing  it,  O  funeral  song, 

With  a  voice  that  is  full  of  tears, 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scathe, 

In  the  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years. 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


One  survivor  there  was,  and  only  one,  Comanche, 
the  horse  ridden  by  Captain  Miles  Keogh.  He 
was  found  several  miles  from  the  battlefield,  and 
had  been  wounded  seven  times.  By  order  of  the 
Secretary  of  War,  a  soldier  was  detailed  to  take 
care  of  him  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  no  one  was 
ever  afterwards  permitted  to  ride  him. 


MILES   KEOGH'S   HORSE 

ON  the  bluff  of  the  Little  Big-Horn, 
At  the  close  of  a  woful  day, 

Custer  and  his  Three  Hundred 
In  death  and  silence  lay. 

Three  Hundred  to  Three  Thousand  V 
They  had  bravely  fought  and  bled; 

For  such  is  the  will  of  Congress 
When  the  While  man  meets  the  Red. 

The  White  men  are  ten  millions, 
The  thriftiest  under  the  sun; 

The  Reds^are  fifty  thousand, 
And  warriors  every  one. 

So  Custer  and  all  his  fighting  men 
Lay  under  the  evening  skies, 

Staring  up  at  the  tranquil  heaven 
With  wide,  accusing  eyes. 

And  of  all  that  stood  at  noonday 

In  that  fiery  scorpion  ring, 
Miles  Keogh's  horse  at  evening 

Was  the  only  living  thing. 


rom  that  field  of  slaughter, 
fhere  lay  the  three  hundred  slain, 
The  horse  Comanche  wandered^/ 
With  Keogh's  blood  son  his  mane. 

And  Sturgis  issued  this  order, 
Which  future  times  shall  read, 

While  the  love  and  honor  of  comrades 
Are  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  creed. 


Let  the  horse  Comanche 
Henceforth  tilt  he  shall  die, 
Be  kindly  cherished  and  cared  for 
By  the  Seventh  Cavalry. 

He  shall  do  no  labor  ;  he  never  shall  know 

The  touch  of  spur  or  rein  ; 
Nor  shall  his  back  be  ever  crossed 

By  living  rider  again. 

And  at  regimental  formation 

Of  the  Seventh  Cavalry, 
Comanche  draped  in  mourning  and  led 

By  a  trooper  of  Company  I, 

Shall  parade  with  the  Regiment  t 

Thus  it  was 

Commanded  and  thus  done, 
By  order  of  GeneralSturgis,  signed 

By  Adjutant  Garlington. 

Even  as  the  sword  of  Custer, 

In  his  disastrous  fall, 
Flashed  out  a  blaze  that  charmed  the  world 

And  glorified~"nls  pall/ 

This  order,  issued  amid  the  gloom,/ 
That  shrouds  our  army's  name, 

When  all  foul  beasts  are  free  to  rend 
And  tear  its  honest  fame*/ 

Shall  prove  to  a  _£all»us  people 

That  the  sense  of  a  soldier's  worth, 

That  the  love  of  comrades,  the  honor.of  arms, 
Have  not  yet  perished  from  earth. 

JOHN  HAY. 


The  government  rushed  a  large  force  to  the 
scene,  and  finally,  after  painful  fighting  and  toil 
some  marches  stretching  over  many  months,  the 
Indians  were  brought  to  terms.  Rain-in-the-Face 
afterwards  professed  himself  a  man  of  peace,  and 
in  1886  tried  to  enter  Hampton  Institute.  He 
was  killed  during  the  Sioux  outbreak  in  1 890. 


THE  "GREY  HORSE  TROOP" 


585 


ON  THE  BIG  HORN 

[1886] 

THE  years  are  but  half  a  score, 
And  the  war-whoop  sounds  no  more 

With  the  blast  of  bugles,  where 
Straight  into  a  slaughter  pen, 
With  his  doomed  three  hundred  men. 

Rode  the  chief  with  the  yellow  hair. 

O  Hampton,  down  by  the  sea! 
What  voice  is  beseeching  thee 

For  the  scholar's  lowliest  place? 
Can  this  be  the  voice  of  him 
Who  fought  on  the  Big  Horn's  rim  ? 

Can  this  be  Rain-in-the-Face  ? 

His  war-paint  is  washed  away, 
His  hands  have  forgotten  to  slay; 

He  seeks  for  himself  and  his  race 
The  arts  of  peace  and  the  lore 
That  give  to  the  skilled  hand  more 

Than  the  spoils  of  war  and  chase. 

O  chief  of  the  Christ-like  school ! 
Can  the  zeal  of  thy  heart  grow  cool 

WTien  the  victor  scarred  with  fight 
Like  a  child  for  thy  guidance  craves, 
And  the  faces  of  hunters  and  braves 

Are  turning  to  thee  for  light  ? 

The  hatchet  lies  overgrown 
With  grass  by  the  Yellowstone, 

Wind  River  and  Paw  of  Bear; 
And,  in  sign  that  foes  are  friends, 
Each  lodge  like  a  peace-pipe  sends 

Its  smoke  in  the  quiet  air. 

The  hands  that  have  done  the  wrong 
To  right  the  wronged  are  strong, 

And  the  voice  of  a  nation  saith: 
"Enough  of  the  war  of  swords,       fc 
Enough  of  the  lying  words 

And  shame  of  a  broken  faith!" 

The  hills  that  have  watched  afar 
The  valleys  ablaze  with  war 

Shall  look  on  the  tasselled  corn; 
And  the  dust  of  the  grinded  grain, 
Instead  of  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

Shall  sprinkle  thy  banks,  Big  Horn! 

The  lite  and  the  wandering  Crow 
Shall  know  as  the  white  men  know. 
And  fare  as  the  white  men  fare; 


The  pale  and  the  red  shall  be  brothers, 
One's  rights  shall  be  as  another's, 
Home,  School,  and  House  of  Prayer! 

O  mountains  that  climb  to  snow, 
O  river  winding  below, 

Through  meadows  by  war  once  trod, 
O  wild,  waste  lands  that  await 
The  harvest  exceeding  great, 

Break  forth  into  praise  of  God ! 

JOHN  GKEENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


In  1886  another  somewhat  serious  uprising  took 
place  among  the  Apaches,  a  band  of  hostiles  taking 
the  warpath  under  the  chief,  Geronimo.  General 
Nelson  A.  Miles,  after  a  long  pursuit,  succeeded 
in  capturing  them. 


THE  "GREY  HORSE  TROOP" 

ALL  alone  on  the  hillside  — 
Larry  an'  Barry  an'  me; 
Nothin'  to  see  but  the  sky  an'  the  plain, 
Nothin'  to  see  but  the  drivin'  rain, 
Nothin'  to  see  but  the  painted  Sioux, 
Galloping,  galloping:  "Whoop  —  whuroo! 
The  divil  in  yellow  is  down  in  the  mud!" 
Sez  Larry  to  Barry,  "I'm  losin'  blood." 

"Cheers  for  the  Greys!"  yells  Barry; 
"Second  Dragoons!"  groans  Larry; 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Egan's  Grey  Troop! 

Whoop!  ye  divils  —  ye've  got  to  whoop; 

Cheer  for  the  troopers  who  die:  sez  I  — 
"Cheer  for  the  troop  that  never  shall  die!" 

All  alone  on  the  hillside  — 

Larry  an'  Barry  an'  me; 

Flat  on  our  bellies,  an'  pourin'  in  lead  — 

Seven  rounds  left,  an'  the  horses  dead  — 

Barry  a-cursin'  at  every  breath; 

Larry  beside  him,  as  white  as  death; 

Indians  galloping,  galloping  by, 

Wheelin'  and  squealin'  like  hawks  in  the  sky! 

"Cheers  for  the  Greys!"  yells  Barry; 
"Second  Dragoons!"  groans  Larry; 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  Egan's  Grey  Troop ! 

Whoop!  ye  divils  —  ye've  got  to  whoop; 

Cheer  for  the  troopers  who  die:  sez  I  — 
"Cheer  for  the  troop  that  never  shall  die!" 

All  alone  on  the  hillside  — 
Larry  an'  Barry  an'  me; 


586 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Two  of  us  livin'  and  one  of  us  dead  — 
Shot  in  the  head,  and  God !  —  how  he  bled ! 
"Larry's  done  up,"  sez  Barry  to  me; 
"Divvy  his  cartridges!  Quick!  gimme  three!" 
While  nearer  an'  nearer  an'  plainer  in  view, 
Galloped  an'  galloped  the  murderin'  Sioux. 

"Cheers  for  the  Greys!"  yells  Barry; 
"Cheer — "  an'  he  falls  on  Larry. 

Alas!  alas!  for  Egan's  Grey  Troop! 

The  Red  Sioux,  hovering  stoop  to  swoop; 

Two  out  of  three  lay  dead,  while  I 

Cheered  for  the  troop  that  never  shall  die. 

All  alone  on  the  hillside  — 

Larry  an'  Barry  an'  me; 

An'  I  6red  an'  yelled  till  I  lost  my  head, 

Cheerin'  the  livin',  cheerin'  the  dead, 

Swingin'  my  cap,  I  cheered  until 

I  stumbled  and  fell.   Then  over  the  hill 

There  floated  a  trumpeter's  silvery  call, 

An'  Egan's  Grey  Troop  galloped  up,  that 's  all. 

Drink  to  the  Greys,  —  an'  Barry ! 
Second  Dragoons,  —  an'  Larry ! 
Here's  a  bumper  to  Egan's  Grey  Troop! 
Let  the  crape  on  the  guidons  droop; 
Drink  to  the  troopers  who  die,  while  I 
Drink  to  the  troop  that  never  shall  die ! 
ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 


Geronimo  was  sent  to  Fort  Pickens,  Florida, 
where  he  was  kept  in  captivity  for  the  remainder 
of  his  lite. 

GERONIMO 

BESIDE  that  tent  and  under  guard 
In  majesty  alone  he  stands, 
As  some  chained  eagle,  broken-winged. 
With  eyes  that  gleam  like  smouldering 

brands,  '• — 

A  savage  face,  streaked  o'er  with  paint. 
And  coal-black  hair  in  unkempt  mane, 
Thin,  cruel  lips,  set  rigidly,  — 
A  red  Apache  Tamerlane. 

As  restless  as  the  desert  winds, 
Yet  here  he  stands  like  carven  stone, 
His  raven  locks  by  breezes  moved 
And  backward  o'er  his  shoulders  blown; 
Silent,  yet  watchful  as  he  waits 
Robed  in  his  strange,  barbaric  guise. 
While  here  and  there  go  searchingly 
The  cat-like  wanderings  of  his  eyes. 


The  eagle  feather  on  his  head 
Is  dull  with  many  a  bloody  stain, 
While  darkly  on  his  lowering  brow 
Forever  rests  the  mark  of  Cain. 
Have  you  but  seen  a  tiger  caged 
And  sullen  through  his  barriers  glare  ? 
Mark  well  his  human  prototype, 
The  fierce  Apache  fettered  there. 

ERNEST  MCGAFFEY. 


In  1889  the  territory  known  as  Oklahoma  was 
opened  to  settlement,  and  again  the  Indians  saw 
their  hunting-grounds  invaded  by  the  white  man, 
while  they  themselves  were  compelled  to  remove 
to  a  new  reservation.  Sitting  Bull  again  advised 
resistance,  and  was  killed  while  trying  to  escape 
arrest.  A  squaw  of  the  tribe,  made  desperate  by 
the  removal,  killed  her  baby  and  committed 
suicide. 


THE   LAST   RESERVATION 

SULLEN  and  dark,  in  the  September  day, 

On  the  bank  of  the  river 
They  waited  the  boat  that  would  bear  them 
away 

From  their  poor  homes  forever. 

For  progress  strides  on,  and  the  order  had 

gone 

To  these  wards  of  the  nation, 
"Give  us  land  and  more  room,"  was  the  cry, 

"and  move  on 
To  the  next  reservation." 

With  her  babe,  she  looked  back  at  the  home 

'neath  the  trees 
From  which  they  were  driven, 
Where  the  smoke  of  the  last  camp  fire,  borne 

on  the  breeze, 
Rose  slowly  toward  heaven. 

Behind  her,  fair  fields,  and  the  forest  and 

glade, 

The  home  of  her  nation; 
Around  her,  the  gleam  of  the  bayonet  and 

blade 
Of  civilization. 

Clasping  close  to  her  bosom  the  small  dusky 

form, 

With  tender  caressing. 
She  bent  down,  on  the  cheek  of  her  babe  soft 

and  warm 
A  mother's  kiss  pressing. 


REJOICE 


587 


There's  a  splash  in  the  river  —  the  column 

moves  on, 

Close-guarded  and  narrow, 
With  hardly  more  note  of  the  two  that  are 

gone 
Than  the  fall  of  a  sparrow. 

Only  an  Indian!   Wretched,  obscure, 

To  refinement  a  stranger, 
And  a  babe,  that  was  born,  in  a  wigwam  as 
poor 

And  rude  as  a  manger. 

Moved  on  —  to  make  room  for  the  growth  in 

the  West 

Of  a  brave  Christian  nation, 
Moved  on  —  and,  thank  God,  forever  at 

rest 
In  the  last  reservation. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 


That  was  the  last  of  the  Indian  outbreaks. 
Although  there  are  still  more  than  two  hundred 
thousand  Indians  in  the  United  States,  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  them  have  adopted  the  dress 
and  customs  of  the  white  man  and  are  engaged 
in  peaceful  occupations.  The  remainder  are  con 
tent  to  live  in  idleness  upon  the  government's 
bounty. 


INDIAN   NAMES 

YE  say  they  all  have  pass'd  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish'd 

From  off  the  crested  wave; 
That,  'mid  the  forests  where  they  roam'd. 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout; 


But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 
Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curl'd; 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world ; 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  West, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins. 

That  cluster'd  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  fled  away  like  wither'd  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale: 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore; 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

'Mid  all  her  young  renown; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves. 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse, 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart; 
Monad  nock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust: 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNET. 


CHAPTER   IV 


THE  SECOND  ASSASSINATION 


On  the  fourth  day  of  March,  1 881 ,  James  Abram 
Garfield,  Republican,  was  inaugurated  President 
of  the  United  States.  He  had  served  with  distinc 
tion  in  the  Civil  War  and  afterwards  in  Congress 
and  seemed  destined  to  enjoy  a  peaceful  and  pros 
perous  administration.  But  on  July  1  he  was  shot 
down  at  Washington  by  Charles  J.  Guiteau,  a  half- 
crazed,  disappointed  office-seeker.  The  President 
fought  manfully  for  life,  but  blood  poisoning  de 
veloped,  and  death  followed  on  September  19. 


REJOICE 


"  Bear  me  out  of  the  battle,  for  lo!  I  am  soreh 
wounded." 


FROM  out  my  deep,  wide-bosomed  West, 
Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 


588 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


For  worlds  to  follow,  with  stern  zest,  — 
Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 

Deep-scarred  from  red  men  gone  to  rest,  — 
Where  pipes    the   quail,  where  squirrels 
play 

Through  tossing  trees,  with  nuts  for  toy, 
A  boy  steps  forth,  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  bashful  boy,  a  soulful  boy, 

Yet  comely  as  the  sons  of  Saul,  — 
A  boy,  all  friendless,  poor,  unknown, 
Yet  heir-apparent  to  a  throne. 


Lo!  Freedom's  bleeding  sacrifice! 

So,  like  some  tall  oak  tempest-blown, 
Beside  the  storied  stream  he  lies 

Now  at  the  last,  pale-browed  and  prone. 
A  nation  kneels  with  streaming  eyes, 

A  nation  supplicates  the  throne, 
A  nation  holds  him  by  the  hand, 

A  nation  sobs  aloud  at  this: 
The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  land 
Now  at  the  last,  I  think,  are  his. 
Why,   we   should    pray,  God   knoweth 

best, 
That  this  grand,  patient  soul  should  rest. 


The  world  is  round.   The  wheel  has  run 

Full  circle.    Now  behold  a  grave 
Beneath  the  old  loved  trees  is  done. 

The  druid  oaks  lift  up,  and  wave 
A  solemn  welcome  back.    The  brave 

Old  maples  murmur,  every  one, 
"Receive  him,  Earth!"    In  centre  land, 

As  in  the  centre  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 

The  coffin  sinks.    And  with  it  part 
All  party  hates!    Now,  not  in  vain 
He  bore  his  peril  and  hard  pain. 


Therefore,  I  say,  rejoice!   I  say, 

The  lesson  of  his  life  was  much,  — 
This  boy  that  won,  as  in  a  day, 

The  world's  heart  utterly;  a  touch 
Of  tenderness  and  tears:  the  page 

Of  history  grows  rich  from  such; 
His  name  the  nation's  heritage,  — 

But  oh !  as  some  sweet  angel's  voice 
Spake  this  brave  death  that  touched  us  all. 
Therefore,  I  say,  Rejoice!  Rejoice! 
Run  high  the  flags!    Put  by  the  pall! 
Lo!  all  is  for  the  best  for  all ! 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


THE   BELLS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

[September  19,  1881] 

In  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped; 
One  unwinds  life,  one  ever  weaves  the  shroud. 

One  waits  to  part  the  thread. 

I 
CLOTHO 

How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Ere  the  weary  task  is  done  ? 
How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Shall  the  fragile  thread  be  spun? 


'T  is  mercy  that  stays  her  hand, 
Else  she  had  cut  the  thread; 
She  is  a  woman  too, 
Like  her  who  kneels  by  his  bed! 


Patience!  the  end  is  come; 
He  shall  no  more  endure: 
See !  with  a  single  touch !  — 
My  hand  is  swift  and  sure! 

ii 

Two  Angels  pausing  in  their  Sight. 
FIRST  ANGEL 

Listen !  what  was  it  fell 
An  instant  ago  on  my  ear  — 
A  sound  like  the  throb  of  a  bell 
From  yonder  darkling  sphere! 

SECOND  ANGEL 

The  planet  where  mortals  dwell! 
I  hear  it  not  .  .  .  yes,  I  hear; 
How  it  deepens  —  a  sound  of  dole! 

FIRST  ANGEL 

Listen !   It  is  the  knell 

Of  a  passing  soul  — 

The  midnight  lamentation 

Of  some  stricken  nation 

For  a  Chieftain's  soul ! 

It  is  just  begun, 

The  many-throated  moan  .  .  . 

Now  the  clangor  swells 

As  if  a  million  bells 

Had  blent  their  tones  in  one! 

Accents  of  despair 

Are  these  to  mortal  ear; 

But  all  this  wild  funereal  music  blown 


MIDNIGHT 


589 


And  sifted  through  celestial  air 

Turns  to  triumphal  paeans  here! 

Wave  upon  wave  the  silvery  anthems  flow; 

Wave  upon  wave  the  deep  vibrations  roll 

From  that  dim  sphere  below. 

Come,  let  us  go  — 

Surely,  some  chieftain's  soul! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


J.  A.  G. 

OUR  sorrow  sends  its  shadow  round  the  earth. 
So  brave,  so  true !    A  hero  from  his  birth ! 
The  plumes  of  Empire  moult,  in  mourning 

draped, 
The    lightning's    message    by    our  tears  is 

shaped. 

Life's  vanities  that  blossom  for  an  hour 
Heap  on  his  funeral  car  their  fleeting  flower. 
Commerce  forsakes  her  temples,  blind  and  dim, 
And  pours  her  tardy  gold,  to  homage  him. 

The  notes  of  grief  to  age  familiar  grow 
Before  the  sad  privations  all  must  know; 
But  the  majestic  cadence  which  we  hear 
To-day,  is  new  in  either  hemisphere. 

What  crown  is  this,  high  hung  and  hard  to 

reach, 

Whose  glory  so  outshines  our  laboring  speech  ? 
The  crown  of  Honor,  pure  and  unbetrayed; 
He  wins  the  spurs  who  bears  the  knightly  aid. 

While  royal  babes  incipient  empire  hold, 
And,  for  bare  promise,  grasp  the  sceptre's  gold, 
This  man  such  service  to  his  age  did  bring 
That  they  who  knew  him  servant,  hailed  him 
king. 

In  poverty  his  infant  couch  was  spread; 
His   tender   hands   soon   wrought   for  daily 

bread ; 

But  from  the  cradle's  bound  his  willing  feet 
The  errand  of  the  moment  went  to  meet. 

When  learning's  page  unfolded  to  his  view, 
The  quick  disciple  straight  a  teacher  grew; 
And,  when  the  fight  of  freedom  stirred  the 

land, 
Armed  was  his  heart  and  resolute  his  hand. 

Wise  in  the  council,  stalwart  in  the  field ! 
Such  rank  supreme  a  workman's  hut  may  yield. 


His  onward  steps  like  measured  marbles  show. 
Climbing  the  height  where  God's  great  flame 
doth  glow. 

Ah !  Rose  of  joy,  that  hid'st  a  thorn  so  sharp! 
Ah !  Golden  woof  that  meet'st  a  severed  warp ! 
Ah !  Solemn  comfort  that  the  stars  rain  down ! 
The  hero's  garland  his,  the  martyr's  crown. 
JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

MIDNIGHT  — SEPTEMBER  19,  1881 

ONCE  in  a  lifetime,  we  may  see  the  veil 
Tremble  and  lift,  that  hides  symbolic  things; 

The  Spirit's  vision,  when  the  senses  fail, 
Sweeps  the  weird  meaning  that  the  outlook 
brings. 

Deep  in  the  midst  of  turmoil,  it  may  be  — 
A  crowded  street,  a  forum,  or  a  field,  — 

The  soul  inverts  the  telescope  to  see 
To-day's  events  in  future's  years  revealed. 

Back  from  the  present,  let  us  look  at  Rome: 
Behold,  what  Cato  meant,  what  Brutus  said, 

Hark !  the  Athenians  welcome  Cimon  home ! 
How  clear  they  are,  those  glimpses  of  the 
dead! 

But  we,  hard  toilers,  we  who  plan  and  weave 
Through  common  days  the  web  of  common 
life, 

What  word,  alas !  shall  teach  us  to  receive 
The  mystic  meaning  of  our  peace  and  strife  ? 

Whence  comes  our  symbol  ?  Surely,  God 
must  speak  — 

No  less  than  He  can  make  us  heed  or  pause : 
Self-seekers  we,  too  busy  or  too  weak 

To  search  beyond  our  daily  lives  and  laws. 

From   things  occult  our  earth-turned   eyes 

rebel; 

No  sound  of  Destiny  can  reach  our  ears ; 
We  have  no  time  for  dreaming  —  Hark !  a 

knell  — 
A  knell  at  midnight !  All  the  nation  hears ! 

A   second    grievous  throb!    The    dreamers 

wake  — 
The  merchant's  soul  forgets  his  goods  and 

ships; 
The  weary  workmen   from   their  slumbers 

break; 

The  women  raise  their  eyes  with  quivering 
lips; 


590 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Toe  miner  rests  upon  his  pick  to  hear; 
The  printer's  type  stops  midway  from  the 

case; 
The  solemn  sound  has  reached  the  roysterer's 

ear, 

And  brought  the  shame  and  sorrow  to  his 
face. 

Again  it  booms!  O  Mystic  Veil,  upraise! 

—  Behold,  't  is  lifted !    On  the  darkness 

drawn, 
A  picture  lined  with  light !  The  people's  gaze, 

From  sea  to  sea,  beholds  it  till  the  dawn! 

A  death-bed  scene  —  a  sinking  sufferer  lies, 
Their  chosen  ruler,  crowned  with  love  and 
pride; 

Around,  his  counsellors,  with  streaming  eyes; 
His  wife,  heart-broken,  kneeling  by  his  side: 

Death's  shadow  holds  her  —  it  will  pass  too 
soon; 

She  weeps  in  silence  —  bitterest  of  tears ; 
He  wanders  softly  —  Nature's  kindest  boon ; 

And  as  he  murmurs,  all  the  country  hears : 

For  him  the  pain  is  past,  the  struggle  ends; 
His  cares  and  honors  fade  —  his  younger 

life 
In  peaceful  Mentor  comes,  with  dear  old 

friends ; 

His  mother's  arms  take  home  his  dear  young 
wife. 

He  stands  among  the  students,  tall  and  strong, 
And  teaches  truths  republican  and  grand; 

He  moves  —  ah,  pitiful  —  he  sweeps  along 
O'er  fields  of  carnage  leading  his  command ! 

He  speaks   to  crowded  faces  —  round    him 

surge 

Thousands  and  millions  of  excited  men; 
He  hears  them  cheer  —  sees  some  vast  light 

emerge  — 
Is  borne  as  on  a  tempest  —  then  —  ah,  then, 

The  fancies  fade,  the  fever's  work  is  past; 

A  deepened  pang,  then  recollection's  thrill; 
He  feels  the  faithful  lips  that  kiss  their  last, 

His  heart  beats  once  in  answer,  and  is 
still! 

The  curtain  falls:  but  hushed,  as  if  afraid, 
The  people  wait,  tear-stained,  with  heaving 
breast; 


'T  will  rise  again,  they  know,  when  he  is  laid 
With  Freedom,  in  the  Capitol,  at  rest. 
JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


For  two  days,  September  22  and  23,  the  body 
lay  in  state  in  the  rotunda  of  the  Capitol.  Then, 
in  a  long  train  crowded  with  the  most  illustrious 
of  his  countrymen,  the  dead  President  was  borne 
to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  buried  on  September  26, 
in  a  beautiful  cemetery  overlooking  the  waters  of 
Lake  Erie. 


AT  THE  PRESIDENT'S  GRAVE 

ALL  summer  long  the  people  knelt 
And  listened  at  the  sick  man's  door: 

Each  pang  which  that  pale  sufferer  felt 
Throbbed  through  the  land  from  shore  to 
shore; 

And  as  the  all-dreaded  hour  drew  nigh, 
What  breathless  watching,  night  and  day ! 

What  tears,  what  prayers !  Great  God  on  high, 
Have  we  forgotten  how  to  pray! 

O  broken-hearted,  widowed  one, 
Forgive  us  if  we  press  too  near! 

Dead  is  our  husband,  father,  son,  — 
For  we  are  all  one  household  here. 

And  not  alone  here  by  the  sea, 
And  not  in  his  own  land  alone, 

Are  tears  of  anguish  shed  with  thee  — 
In  this  one  loss  the  world  is  one. 


A  man  not  perfect,  but  of  heart 
So  high,  of  such  heroic  rage, 

That  even  his  hopes  became  a  part 
Of  earth's  eternal  heritage. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


The  public  rags  against  the  assassin  knew  no 
bounds.  Only  by  the  utmost  vigilance  was  his 
life  saved  from  the  attacks  upon  it.  He  was 
brought  to  trial  and  found  guilty  of  murder  in 
January,  1882,  and  was  executed  June  30. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD 


FALLEN  with  autumn's  falling  leaf 
Ere  yet  his  summer's  noon  was  past, 


PRESIDENT    GARFIELD 


Our  friend,  our  guide,  our  trusted  chief,  — 
What  words  can  match  a  woe  so  vast! 

And  whose  the  chartered  claim  to  speak 
The  sacred  grief  where  all  have  part, 

Where  sorrow  saddens  every  cheek 
And  broods  in  every  aching  heart? 

Yet  Nature  prompts  the  burning  phrase 
That    thrills    the   hushed    and    shrouded 
hall, 

The  loud  lament,  the  sorrowing  praise, 
The  silent  tear  that  love  lets  fall. 

In  loftiest  verse,  in  lowliest  rhyme, 

Shall  strive  unblamed  the  minstrel  choir,  — 

The  singers  of  the  new-born  time, 
And  trembling  age  with  outworn  lyre. 

No  room  for  pride,  no  place  for  blame,  — 
We  fling  our  blossoms  on  the  grave, 

Pale,  —  scentless,  —  faded,  —  all  we  claim, 
This  only,  —  what  we  had  we  gave. 

Ah,  could  the  grief  of  all  who  mourn 
Blend  in  one  voice  its  bitter  cry, 

The  wail  to  heaven's  high  arches  borne 
Would  echo  through  the  caverned  sky. 


O  happiest  land,  whose  peaceful  choice 
Fills  with  a  breath  its  empty  throne! 

God,  speaking  through  thy  people's  voice, 
Has  made  that  voice  for  once  his  own. 

No  angry  passion  shakes  the  state 
Whose  weary  servant  seeks  for  rest. 

And  who  could  fear  that  scowling  hate 
Would  strike  at  that  unguarded  breast  ? 

He  stands,  unconscious  of  his  doom, 
In  manly  strength,  erect,  serene; 

Around  him  Summer  spreads  her  bloom; 
He  falls,  —  what  horror  clothes  the  scene ! 

How  swift  the  sudden  flash  of  woe 
Where  all  was  bright  as  childhood's  dream ! 

As  if  from  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Had  leaped  the  lightning's  arrowy  gleam. 

Blot  the  foul  deed  from  history's  page; 

Let  not  the  all-betraying  sun 
Blush  for  the  day  that  stains  an  age 

When  murder's  blackest  wreath  was  won. 


Pale  on  his  couch  the  sufferer  lies. 
The  weary  battle-ground  of  pain: 

Love  tends  his  pillow;  Science  tries 
Her  every  art,  alas!  in  vain. 

The  strife  endures  how  long!  how  long! 

Life,  death,  seem  balanced  in  the  scale, 
While  round  his  bed  a  viewless  throng 

Await  each  morrow's  changing  tale. 

In  realms  the  desert  ocean  parts 

What  myriads  watch  with  tear-filled  eyes, 
His  pulse-beats  echoing  in  their  hearts, 

His  breathings  counted  with  their  sighs! 

Slowly  the  stores  of  life  are  spent, 
Yet  hope  still  battles  with  despair; 

Will  Heaven  not  yield  when  knees  are  bent  ? 
Answer,  O  thou  that  hearest  prayer! 

But  silent  is  the  brazen  sky; 

On  sweeps  the  meteor's  threatening  train, 
Unswerving  Nature's  mute  reply. 

Bound  in  her  adamantine  chain. 

Not  ours  the  verdict  to  decide 

Whom  death  shall  claim  or  skill  shall  save; 
The  hero's  life  though  Heaven  denied, 

It  gave  our  land  a  martyr's  grave. 

Nor  count  the  teaching  vainly  sent 

How  human  hearts  their  griefs  may  share,  — 

The  lesson  woman's  love  has  lent, 

What  hope  may  do,  what  faith  can  bear! 

Farewell!  the  leaf-strown  earth  enfolds 
Our  stay,  our  pride,  our  hopes,  our  fears. 

And  autumn's  golden  sun  beholds 
A  nation  bowed,  a  world  in  tears. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


PRESIDENT  GARFIELD 

"  E  venni  dal  martirio  a  questa  pace." 

PARADISO,  xv,  148. 

THESE  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here 
In  the  true  faith,  was  living  in  that  sphere 
Where  the  celestial  cross  of  sacrifice 

Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart  the  skies; 
And  set  thereon,  like  jewels  crystal  clear. 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not  fear, 
Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 


592 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ah  me!  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 
Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by  the  sense 
Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release! 
This  is  our  consolation;  and  again 

A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense, 
"I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this  peace!" 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  surrender  of 
the  British  at  Yorktown  was  celebrated  on  Octo 
ber  19,  1881.  The  lyric  for  the  occasion  was  writ 
ten  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

YORKTOWN  CENTENNIAL  LYRIC 

[October  19,  1881] 

HARK!  hark!  down  the  century's  long  reach 
ing  slope 

To  those  transports  of  triumph,  those  raptures 
of  hope, 

The  voices  of  main  and  of  mountain  com 
bined 

In  glad  resonance  borne  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind, 

The  bass  of  the  drum  and  the  trumpet  that 
thrills 

Through  the  multiplied  echoes  of  jubilant 
hills. 

And  mark  how  the  years  melting  upward  like 
mist 

Which  the  breath  of  some  splendid  enchant 
ment  has  kissed, 

Reveal  on  the  ocean,  reveal  on  the  shore 

The  proud  pageant  of  conquest  that  graced 
them  of  yore, 

When  blended  forever  in  love  as  in  fame 

See,  the  standard  which  stole  from  the  star 
light  its  flame, 

And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 

The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

Oh,  stubborn  the  strife  ere  the  conflict  was 

won! 
And  the  wild  whirling  war  wrack  half  stifled 

the  sun. 
The  thunders  of  cannon  that  boomed  on  the 

lea. 
But  reechoed  far  thunders   pealed  up  from 

the  sea, 
Where  guarding  his  sea  lists,  a  knight  on  the 

waves, 

Bold  De  Grasse  kept  at  bay  the  bluff  bull 
dogs  of  Graves. 
The  day  turned  to  darkness,  the  night  changed 

to  fire, 


Still  more  fierce  waxed   the  combat,   more 

deadly  the  ire, 

Undimmed  by  the  gloom,  in  majestic  advance, 
Oh,  behold  where  they  ride  o'er  the  red  battle 

tide, 

Those  banners  united  in  love  as  in  fame, 
The  brave  standard  which  drew  from  the  star- 
beams  their  flame, 

And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 
The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

No  respite,  no  pause;  by  the  York's  tortured 
flood, 

The  grim  Lion  of  England  is  writhing  in  blood. 

Cornwallis  may  chafe  and  coarse  Tarleton 
aver, 

As  he  sharpens  his  broadsword  and  buckles 
his  spur, 

"This  blade,  which  so  oft  has  reaped  rebels 
like  grain, 

Shall  now  harvest  for  death  the  rude  yeomen 
again." 

Vain  boast!  for  ere  sunset  he  's  flying  in 
fear, 

With  the  rebels  he  scouted  close,  close  in  his 
rear. 

While  the  French  on  his  flank  hurl  such  volleys 
of  shot 

That  e'en  Gloucester's  redoubt  must  be  grow 
ing  too  hot. 

Thus  wedded  in  love  as  united  in  fame, 

Lo !  the  standard  which  stole  from  the  star 
light  its  flame, 

And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 

The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 

O  morning  superb !  when  the  siege  reached  its 
close; 

See!  the  sundawn  outbloom,  like  the  alchem 
ist's  rose! 

The  last  wreaths  of  smoke  from  dim  trenches 
upcurled, 

Are  transformed  to  a  glory  that  smiles  on  the 
world. 

Joy,  joy!  Save  the  wan,  wasted  front  of  the 
foe, 

With  his  battle-flags  furled  and  his  arms  trail 
ing  low;  — 

Respect  for  the  brave!  In  stern  silence  they 
yield, 

And  in  silence  they  pass  with  bowed  heads 
from  the  field. 

Then  triumph  transcendent !  so  Titan  of  tone 

That  some  vowed  it  must  startle  King  George 
on  his  throne. 


BROOKLYN   BRIDGE 


593 


When  Peace  to  her  own,  timed  the  pulse  of  the 
land, 

And  the  war  weapon  sank  from  the  war- 
wearied  hand, 

Young  Freedom  upborne  to  the  height  of  the 
goal 

She  had  yearned  for  so  long  with  deep  tra 
vail  of  soul, 

A  song  of  her  future  raised,  thrilling  and  clear, 

Till  the  woods  leaned  to  hearken,  the  hill  slopes 
to  hear : — - 

Yet  fraught  with  all  magical  grandeurs  that 
gleam 

On   the  hero's  high  hope,   or  the  patriot's 
dream, 

What  future,  though  bright,  in  cold  shadow 
shall  cast 

The  proud  beauty  that  haloes  the  brow  of  the 
past. 

Oh !  wedded  in  love,  as  united  in  fame, 

See  the  standard  which  stole  from  the  star 
light  its  flame, 

And  type  of  all  chivalry,  glory,  romance, 

The  lilies,  the  luminous  lilies  of  France. 
PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


On  May  24,  1883,  the  great  bridge  spanning  the 
East  River  and  connecting  Brooklyn  with  New 
York  City  was  opened  to  the  public,  having  been 
thirteen  years  in  process  of  construction. 

THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 

[May  24,  1883] 

A  GRANITE  cliff  on  either  shore: 

A  highway  poised  in  air; 
Above,  the  wheels  of  traffic  roar; 

Below,  the  fleets  sail  fair;  — 
And  in  and  out,  forevermore, 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  the  towers  the  white  gulls  soar, 

And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear. 

O  peerless  this  majestic  street. 

This  road  that  leaps  the  brine! 
Upon  its  heights  twin  cities  meet. 

And  throng  its  grand  incline,  — 
To  east,  to  west,  with  swiftest  feet, 
Though  ice  may  crash  and  billows  beat. 
Though  blinding  fogs  the  wave  may  greet 
Or  golden  summer  shine. 

Sail  up  the  Bay  with  morning's  beam, 
Or  rocky  Hellgate  by,  — 


Its  columns  rise,  its  cables  gleam, 
Great  tents  athwart  the  sky ! 
And  lone  it  looms,  august,  supreme, 
When,  with  the  splendor  of  a  dream, 
Its  blazing  cressets  gild  the  stream 
Till  evening  shadows  fly. 

By  Nile  stand  proud  the  pyramids, 
But  they  were  for  the  dead ; 

The  awful  gloom  that  joy  forbids, 
The  mourners'  silent  tread. 

The  crypt,  the  coffin's  stony  lids,  — 

Sad  as  a  soul  the  maze  that  thrids 

Of  dark  Amenti,  ere  it  rids 

Its  way  of  judgment  dread. 

This  glorious  arch,  these  climbing  towers. 

Are  all  for  life  and  cheer! 
Part  of  the  New  World's  nobler  dowers ; 

Hint  of  millennial  year 
That  comes  apace,  though  evil  lowers,  — 
When  loftier  aims  and  larger  powers 
Will  mould  and  deck  this  earth  of  ours, 

And  heaven  at  length  bring  near! 

Unmoved  its  cliffs  shall  crown  the  shore; 

Its  arch  the  chasm  dare; 
Its  network  hang  the  blue  before, 

As  gossamer  in  air; 
While  in  and  out,  forevermore. 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  its  towers  the  white  gulls  soar 

And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear! 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 

No  lifeless  thing  of  iron  and  stone, 
But  sentient,  as  her  children  are, 

Nature  accepts  you  for  her  own, 
Kin  to  the  cataract  and  the  star. 

She  marks  your  vast,  sufficing  plan, 
Cable  and  girder,  bolt  and  rod, 

And  takes  you,  from  the  hand  of  man, 
For  some  new  handiwork  of  God. 

You  thrill  through  all  your  chords  of  steel 

Responsive  to  the  living  sun; 
And  quickening  in  your  nerves  you  feel 

Life  with  its  conscious  currents  run. 

Your  anchorage  upbears  the  march 
Of  time  and  the  eternal  powers. 


594 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  sky  admits  your  perfect  arch, 
The  rock  respects  your  stable  towers. 
CHABLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 


The  first  week  in  September,  1 886.  a  destructive 
earthquake  shook  the  eastern  portion  of  the 
United  States,  Charleston,  S.  C.,  suffering  a  tre 
mendous  shock  which  snuffed  out  scores  of  lives 
and  rendered  seven  eighths  of  the  houses  unfit  for 
habitation. 

CHARLESTON 

1886 

Is  this  the  price  of  beauty !  Fairest,  thou, 
Of  all  the  cities  of  the  sunrise  sea, 
Yet  thrice  art  stricken.   First,  war  harried 

thee: 
Then  the  dread  circling  tempest  drove  its 

plough 

Right  through  thy  palaces;  and  now,  O  now! 
A  sound  of  terror,  and  thy  children  flee 
Into  the  night  and  death.  O  Deity! 
Thou  God  of  war  and  whirlwind,  whose 

dark  brow, 

Frowning,  makes  tremble  sea  and  solid  land ! 
These  are  thy  creatures  who  to  heaven  cry 
While  hell  roars  'neath  them,  and  its  por 
tals  ope; 
To  thee  they  call,  —  to  thee  who  bidst  them 

die. 

Who  hast  forgotten  to  withhold  thy  hand, — 
For  thou,  Destroyer,  art  man's  only  Hope ! 
RICHAHD  WATSON  GILDEH. 


On  September  9  and  11,  1886,  the  American 
yacht  Mayflower  defeated  the  English  yacht  Gala 
tea  in  the  international  races  for  the  America's  cup. 

MAYFLOWER 

THUNDER  our  thanks  to  her  —  guns,  hearts, 
and  lips! 

Cheer  from  the  ranks  to  her. 

Shout  from  the  banks  to  her,  — 
Mayflower!  Foremost  and  best  of  our  ships. 

Mayflower!  Twice  in  the  national  story 
Thy  dear  name  in  letters  of  gold  — 
Woven  in  texture  that  never  grows  old  — 

Winning  a  home  and  winning  glory ! 

Sailing  the  years  to  us,  welcomed  for  aye; 

Cherished  for  centuries,  dearest  to-day. 

Every  heart  throbs  for  her,  every  flag  dips  — 

Mayflower !  First  and  last  —  best  ot  our  ships ! 


White  as  a  seagull  she  swept  the  long  passage. 

True  as  the  homing-bird  flies  with  its  message. 

Love  her  ?  O,  richer  than  silk  every  sail  of  her. 

Trust  her  ?  more  precious  than  gold  every  nail 
of  her. 

Write  we  down  faithfully  every  man's  part  in 
her; 

Greet  we  all  gratefully  every  true  heart  in  her. 

More  than  a  name  to  us,  sailing  the  fleetest, 

Symbol  of  that  which  is  purest  and  sweetest. 

More  than  a  keel  to  us,  steering  the  straightest: 

Emblem  of  that  which  is  freest  and  greatest. 

More  than  a  dove-bosomed  sail  to  the  wind 
ward: 

Flame  passing  on  while  the  night-clouds  fly 
hind  ward. 

Kiss  every  plank  of  her !  None  shall  take  rank 
of  her; 

Frontward  or  weatherward,  none  can  eclipse. 

Thunder  our  thanks  to  her!  Cheer  from  the 
banks  to  her! 

Mayflower !  Foremost  and  best  of  our  ships ! 
JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

On  October  28,  1886,  Bartholdi's  statue  of 
Liberty  Enlightening  the  World,  a  gift  to  America 
from  the  peopleof  France,  was  unveiled  on  Bedloe's 
Island,  in  New  York  Harbor. 

FAIREST  OF  FREEDOM'S 
DAUGHTERS 

Read  at  the  dedication  of  the  Bartholdi  Statue, 
New  York  Harbor,  October  28,  1 886 

NIGHT'S  diadem  around  thy  head, 

The  world  upon  thee  gazing, 
Beneath  the  eye  of  heroes  dead 

Thy  queenly  form  up-raising. 
Lift  up,  lift  up  thy  torch  on  high, 

Fairest  of  Freedom's  daughters! 
Flash  it  against  thine  own  blue  sky, 

Flash  it  across  the  waters ! 

Stretch  up  to  thine  own  woman's  height, 

Thine  eye  lit  with  truth's  lustre, 
As  though  from  God,  Himself  a-light, 

Earth's  hopes  around  thee  cluster. 
The  stars  touch  with  thy  forehead  fair; 

At  them  thy  torch  was  lighted. 
They  grope  to  find  where  truth's  ways  are, 

The  nations  long  benighted. 

Thou  hast  the  van  in  earth's  proud  march. 

To  thee  all  nations  turning; 
Thy  torch  against  thine  own  blue  arch, 

In  answer  to  their  yearning! 


THE   BARTHOLDI   STATUE 


595 


Show  them  the  pathway  thou  hast  trod, 
The  chains  which  thou  hast  broken; 

Teach  them  thy  trust  in  man  and  God, 
The  watchwords  thou  hast  spoken. 

Not  here  is  heard  the  Alp-herd's  horn, 

The  mountain  stillness  breaking; 
Nor  do  we  catch  the  roseate  morn, 

The  Alpine  summits  waking. 
Is  Neckar's  vale  no  longer  fair, 

That  German  hearts  are  leaving? 
Ah !   German  hearts  from  hearthstones  tear, 

In  thy  proud  star  believing. 

Has  Rhineland  lost  her  grape's  perfume, 

Her  waters  green  and  golden  ? 
And  do  her  castles  no  more  bloom 

With  legends  rare  and  olden  ? 
Why  leave,  strong  men,  the  Fatherland  ? 

Why  cross  the  cold  blue  ocean  ? 
Truth's  torch  in  thine  uplifted  hand, 

Ha !  kindles  their  devotion. 

God,  home,  and  country  be  thy  care, 

Thou  queen  of  all  the  ages ! 
Belting  the  earth  is  this  one  prayer: 

Unspotted  be  thy  pages ! 
Lift  up,  lift  up  thy  torch  on  high, 

Fairest  of  Freedom's  daughters ! 
Flash  it  against  thine  own  blue  sky, 

Fksh  it  across  the  waters ! 

JEREMIAH  EAMES  RANKIN. 


LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE 
WORLD 

WARDEN  at  ocean's  gate, 
Thy  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Like  one  the  skies  await 

When  time  shall  be  no  more! 

What  splendors  crown  thy  brow? 

What  bright  dread  angel  Thou, 
Dazzling  the  waves  before 
Thy  station  great? 

"My  name  is  Liberty! 

From  out  a  mighty  land 
I  face  the  ancient  sea, 

I  lift  to  God  my  hand; 
By  day  in  Heaven's  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 
At  ocean's  gate  I  stand 
Nor  bend  the  knee. 


"The  dark  Earth  lay  in  sleep. 

Her  children  crouched  forlorn, 
Ere  on  the  western  steep 

I  sprang  to  height,  reborn : 
Then  what  a  joyous  shout 
The  quickened  lands  gave  out, 
And  all  the  choir  of  morn 
Sang  anthems  deep. 

"Beneath  yon  firmament, 

The  New  World  to  the  Old 
My  sword  and  summons  sent, 

My  azure  flag  unrolled : 
The  Old  World's  hands  renew 
Their  strength;  the  form  ye  view 
Came  from  a  living  mould 
In  glory  blent. 

"O  ye,  whose  broken  spars 

Tell  of  the  storms  ye  met, 
Enter!  fear  not  the  bars 

Across  your  pathway  set; 
Enter  at  Freedom's  porch, 
For  you  I  lift  my  torch, 
For  you  my  coronet 
Is  rayed  with  stars. 

"  But  ye  that  hither  draw 
To  desecrate  my  fee, 
Nor  yet  have  held  in  awe 

The  justice  that  makes  free,  — 
Avaunt,  ye  darkling  brood ! 
By  Right  my  house  hath  stood: 
My  name  is  Liberty, 
My  throne  is  Law." 

O  wonderful  and  bright, 

Immortal  Freedom,  hail! 
Front,  in  thy  fiery  might, 

The  midnight  and  the  gale; 
Undaunted  on  this  base 
Guard  well  thy  dwelling-place: 
Till  the  last  sun  grow  pale 
Let  there  be  Light ! 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE 

1886 

THE  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings, 
In  freeing  us,  itself  made  free, 

Our  Old  World  Sister,  to  us  brings 
Her  sculptured  Dream  of  Liberty: 


596 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Unlike  the  shapes  on  Egypt's  sands 

Uplifted  by  the  toil-worn  slave, 
On  Freedom's  soil  with  freemen's  hands 

We  rear  the  symbol  free  hands  gave. 

O  France,  the  beautiful !  to  thee 
Once  more  a  debt  of  love  we  owe: 

In  peace  beneath  thy  Colors  Three, 
We  hail  a  later  Rochambeau! 

Rise,  stately  Symbol!  holding  forth 
Thy  light  and  hope  to  all  who  sit 

In  chains  and  darkness!   Belt  the  earth 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  torch  up-lit! 

Reveal  the  primal  mandate  still 
Which  Chaos  heard  and  ceased  to  be, 

Trace  on  mid-air  th'  Eternal  Will 
In  signs  of  fire:  "Let  man  be  free!" 

Shine  far,  shine  free,  a  guiding  light 
To  Reason's  ways  and  Virtue's  aim, 

A  lightning-flash  the  wretch  to  smite 
Who  shields  his  license  with  thy  name! 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

On  September  18,  1887,  the  one  hundredth  an 
niversary  of  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States  was  suitably  observed  at  Phila 
delphia.  President  Grover  Cleveland,  Justice 
Samuel  Freeman  Miller,  and  John  Adams  Kasson 
delivered  addresses,  and  "The  New  Hail  Colum 
bia"  was  sung  by  a  chorus  of  two  thousand 
voices. 

ADDITIONAL  VERSES  TO  HAIL 
COLUMBIA 

Written  at  the  request  of  the  committee  for  the 
Constitutional  Centennial  Celebration  at  Phila 
delphia,  1887. 

LOOK  our  ransomed  shores  around, 
Peace  and  safety  we  have  found ! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes, 
To  all  the  conquering  years  have  gained,  — 
A  nation's  rights,  a  race  unchained! 

Children  of  the  day  new-born ! 

Mindful  of  its  glorious  morn, 

Let  the  pledge  our  fathers  signed 

Heart  to  heart  forever  bind ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One! 


Graven  deep  with  edge  of  steel, 
Crowned  with  Victory's  crimson  seal, 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read ! 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read, 
Enrolled  with  his,  the  Chief  that  led 
The  hosts  whose  blood  for  us  was  shed. 

Pay  our  sires  their  children's  debt, 

Love  and  honor,  nor  forget 

Only  Union's  golden  key 

Guards  the  Ark  of  Liberty ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One! 

Hail,  Columbia!  strong  and  free, 
Throned  in  hearts  from  sea  to  sea! 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue 
With  peaceful  stride  from  zone  to  zone, 
Till  Freedom  finds  the  world  her  own ! 

Blest  in  Union's  holy  ties, 

Let  our  grateful  song  arise. 

Every  voice  its  tribute  lend, 

All  in  loving  chorus  blend ! 

While  the  stars  in  heaven  shall  burn. 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  shall  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Following  this  came  the  recital  by  James  Ed 
ward  Murdock  of  the  "New  National  Hymn," 
the  Marine  Band  leading  the  people  and  the  singers 
in  the  chorus. 


NEW  NATIONAL  HYMN 

HAIL,  Freedom!  thy  bright  crest 
And  gleaming  shield,  thrice  blest, 

Mirror  the  glories  of  a  world  thine  own. 
Hail,  heaven-born  Peace!  our  sight, 
Led  by  thy  gentle  light, 

Shows  us  the  paths  with  deathless  flowers 

strewn. 

Peace,  daughter  of  a  strife  sublime, 
Abide  with  us  till  strife  be  lost  in  endless 

time. 
Chorus  —  Thy  sun  is  risen,  and  shall  not  set, 

Upon  thy  day  divine; 
Ages,  of  unborn  ages*  yet, 
America,  are  thine. 


IN  APIA  BAY 


59) 


Her  one  hand  seals  with  gold 
The  portals  of  night's  fold, 

Her  other,  the  broad  gates  of  dawn  unbars; 
O'er  silent  wastes  of  snows, 
Crowning  her  lofty  brows, 

Gleams  high  her  diadem  of  northern  stars; 
While,  clothed  in  garlands  of  warm  flowers, 
Round  Freedom's  feet  the  South  her  wealth  of 
beauty  showers. 

Sweet  is  the  toil  of  peace, 
Sweet  is  the  year's  increase. 

To  loyal  men  who  live  by  Freedom's  laws; 
And  in  war's  fierce  alarms 
God  gives  stout  hearts  and  arms 

To  freemen  sworn  to  save  a  rightful  cause. 
Fear  none,  trust  God,  maintain  the  right, 
And  triumph  in  unbroken  Union's  might. 

Welded  in  war's  fierce  flame, 
Forged  on  the  hearth  of  fame, 

The  sacred  Constitution  was  ordained; 
Tried  in  the  fire  of  time, 
Tempered  in  woes  sublime, 

An  age  was  passed  and  left  it  yet  unstained. 
God  grant  its  glories  still  may  shine, 
While  ages  fade,  forgotten,  in  time's  slow  de 
cline! 

Honor  the  few  who  shared 
Freedom's  first  fight,  and  dared 

To  face  war's  desperate  tide  at  the  full  flood ; 
Who  fell  on  hard-won  ground, 
And  into  Freedom's  wound 

Poured  the  sweet  balsam  of  their  brave 

hearts'  blood. 

They  fell ;  but  o'er  that  glorious  grave 
Floats  free  the  banner  of  the  cause  they  died 
to  save. 

In  radiance  heavenly  fair* 
Floats  on  the  peaceful  air 

That  flag  that  never  stooped  from  victory's 

pride; 

Those  stars  that  softly  gleam, 
Those  stripes  that  o'er  us  stream, 

In  war's  grand  agony  were  sanctified ; 
A  holy  standard,  pure  and  free. 
To  light  the  home  of  peace,  or  blaze  in  vic 
tory. 

Father,  whose  mighty  power 
Shields  us  through  life's  short  hour, 
To  Thee  we  pray,  —  Bless  us  and  keep  us 
free: 


All  that  is  past  forgive; 
Teach  us,  henceforth,  to  live, 
That,  through  our  country,  we  may  honor 

Thee: 

And,  when  this  mortal  life  shall  cease, 
Take  Thou,  at  last,  our  souls  to  Thine  eter 
nal  peace. 

FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

On  March  15,  1889,  a  destructive  hurricane 
visited  the  Samoan  Islands.  There  were  in  the 
harbor  of  Apia,  at  the  time  one  English,  three 
German,  and  three  American  war-ships,  sent 
there  to  safeguard  the  interests  of  their  respective 
countries.  The  English  ship,  the  Calliope,  suc 
ceeded  in  steaming  out  of  the  harbor,  the  crew  of 
the  American  flagship  Trenton  cheering  her  as  she 
passed.  The  Trenton  was  wrecked  a  few  minutea 
later,  as  were  the  five  other  ships  in.  the  harbor. 

IN   APIA   BAY 

(Morituri  vos  aalutamus) 

RUIN  and  death  held  sway 

That  night  in  Apia  Bay, 
And  smote  amid  the  loud  and  dreadful  gloom. 

But,  Hearts,  no  longer  weep 

The  salt  unresting  sleep 
Of  the  great  dead,  victorious  in  their  doom. 

Vain,  vain  the  strait  retreat 

That  held  the  fated  fleet, 
Trapped  in  the  two-fold  threat  of  sea  and 
shore! 

Fell  reefs  on  either  hand, 

And  the  devouring  strand ! 
Above,  below,  the  tempest's  deafening  roar! 

What  mortal  hand  shall  write 

The  horror  of  that  night, 
The  desperate  struggle  in  that  deadly  close, 

The  yelling  of  the  blast. 

The  wild  surf,  white,  aghast, 
The  whelming  seas,  the  thunder  and  the  throes ! 

How  the  great  cables  surged, 
The  giant  engines  urged, 
As  the  brave  ships  the  unequal  strife  waged 

on! 

Not  hope,  not  courage  flagged ; 
But  the  vain  anchors  dragged, 
Down  on  the  reefs  they  shattered,  and  were 
gone! 

And  now  were  wrought  the  deeds 
Whereof  each  soul  that  reads 


598 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Grows   manlier,    and    burns   with    prouder 

breath, — 

Heroic  brotherhood, 
The  loving  bonds  of  blood, 
Proclaimed  from  high  hearts  face  to  face  with 
death. 

At  length,  the  English  ship 

Her  cables  had  let  slip, 
Crowded  all  steam,  and  steered  for  the  open 
sea, 

Resolved  to  challenge  Fate, 

To  pass  the  perilous  strait, 
And  wrench  from  jaws  of  ruin  Victory. 

With  well-tried  metals  strained, 
In  the  storm's  teeth  she  gained, 
Foot  by  slow  foot  made  head,  and  crept  to 
ward  life. 

Across  her  dubious  way 
The  good  ship  Trenton  lay, 
Helpless,  but  thrilled  to  watch  the  splendid 
strife. 

Helmless  she  lay,  her  bulk 

A  blind  and  wallowing  hulk, 
By  her  strained  hawsers  only  held  from  wreck, 

But  dauntless  each  brave  heart 

Played  his  immortal  part 
In  strong  endurance  on  the  reeling  deck. 

They  fought  Fate  inch  by  inch,  — 

Could  die,  but  could  not  flinch; 
And,  biding  the  inevitable  doom, 

They  marked  the  English  ship, 

Baffling  the  tempest's  grip. 
Forge  hardly  forth  from  the  expected  tomb. 

Then,  with  exultant  breath, 

These  heroes  waiting  death, 
Thundered  across  the  storm  a  peal  of  cheers,  — 

To  the  triumphant  brave 

A  greeting  from  the  grave, 
Whose  echo  shall  go  ringing  down  the  years. 

"To  you,  who  well  have  won, 

From  us,  whose  course  is  run, 
Glad  greeting,  as  we  face  the  undreaded  end ! " 
The  memory  of  those  cheers 
Shall  thrill  in  English  ears 
Where'er  this  English  blood  and  speech  ex 
tend. 

No  manlier  deed  comes  down, 
Blazoned  in  broad  renown, 


From  men  of  old  who  lived  to  dare  and  die! 

The  old  fire  yet  survives, 

Here  in  our  modern  lives, 
Of  splendid  chivalry  and  valor  high ! 
CHARLES  GEORGE  DOUGLAS  ROBERTS. 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE 

[March  15,  1889] 

WE  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from  the  coast  of 

Panama, 

And  for  two  long  months  we  sailed  the  un 
equal  sea, 
Till  we  made  the  horseshoe  harbor  with  its 

curving  coral  bar, 
Smelt  the  good  green  smell  of  grass  and 

shrub  and  tree. 
We  had  barely  room  for  swinging  with  the 

tide  — 

There  were  many  of  us  crowded  in  the  bay : 

Three  Germans,  and  the  English  ship,  beside 

Our  three  —  and  from  the  Trenton,  where 

she  lay, 

Through  the  sunset  calms  and  after, 
We  could  hear  the  shrill,  sweet  laughter 
Of  the  children's  voices  on  the  shore  at  play. 

We  all  knew  a  storm  was  coming,  but,  dear 

God!  no  man  could  dream 
Of  the  furious  hell-horrors  of  that  day: 
Through  the  roar  of  winds  and  waters  we 

could  hear  wild  voices  scream  — 
See  the  rocking  masts  reel  by  us  through 

the  spray. 

In  the  gale  we  drove  and  drifted  helplessly, 
With  our  rudder  gone,  our  engine-fires 

drowned, 
And  none  might  hope  another  hour  to  see; 

For  all  the  air  was  desperate  with  the  sound 
Of  the  brave  ships  rent  asunder  — 
Of  the  shrieking  souls  sucked  under, 

'Neath  the  waves,  where  many  a  good  man's 
grave  was  found. 

About  noon,  upon   our  quarter,   from  the 

deeper  gloom  afar. 

Came  the  English  man-of-war  Calliope: 
"We  have  lost  our  anchors,  comrades,  and, 

though  small  the  chances  are, 
We  must  steer  for  safety  and  the  open  sea." 
Then  we  climbed  aloft  to  cheer  her  as  she 

passed 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  blackness  and 
the  foam: 


THE  MAN  WHO  RODE  TO  CONEMAUGH 


599 


"Now   God   speed   you,   though  the  shout 

should  be  our  last, 
Through  the  channel  where  the  maddened 

breakers  comb, 

Through  the  wild  sea's  hill  and  hollow, 
On  the  path  we  cannot  follow, 
To  your  women  and  your  children  and  your 
home." 

Oh!  remember  it,  good  brothers.    We  two 

people  speak  one  tongue, 
And  your  native  land  was  mother  to  our 

land; 

But  the  head,  perhaps,  is  hasty  when  the  na 
tion's  heart  is  young, 

And  we  prate  of  things  we  do  not  under 
stand. 
But  the  day  when  we  stood  face  to  face  with 

death 
(Upon  whose  face  few  men  may  look  and 

tell), 

As  long  as  you  could  hear,  or  we  had  breath, 
Four  hundred  voices  cheered  you  out  of  hell ! 
By  the  will  of  that  stern  chorus, 
By  the  motherland  which  bore  us. 

Judge  if  we  do  not  love  each  other  well. 
CAROLINE  DUEB. 

On  May  31,  1889,  western  Pennsylvania  was 
visited  by  one  of  the  worst  catastrophes  in  the 
history  of  the  country.  A  flood  from  a  broken 
reservoir  overwhelmed  Johnstown,  Conemaugh, 
and  a  number  of  smaller  towns,  destroying  over 
two  thousand  lives  and  property  to  the  value  of 
ten  million  dollars. 

BY  THE   CONEMAUGH 

[May  31,  18891 

FOREBODING  sudden  of  untoward  change, 
A  tight'ning  clasp  on  everything  held  dear, 

A  moan  of  waters  wild  and  strange, 
A  whelming  horror  near; 

And,  'midst  the  thund'rous  din  a  voice  of 
doom,  — 

"Make  way  for  me,  O  Life,  for  Death  make 


"I  come  like  the  whirlwind  rude, 

'Gainst  all  thou  hast  cherished  warring; 

I  come  like  the  flaming  flood 

From  a  crater's  mouth  outpouring; 

I  come  like  the  avalanche  gliding  free  — 

And  the  Power  that  sent  thee  forth,  sends 
me! 


"Where   thou   hast   builded    with   strength 

secure. 

My  hand  shall  spread  disaster; 
Where  thou  hast  barr'd  me,  with  forethought 

sure, 

Shall  ruin  flow  the  faster; 
I  come  to  gather  where  thou  hast  sowed,  — 
But  I  claim  of  thee  nothing  thou  hast  not  owed ! 

"On  my  mission  of  mercy  forth  I  go 

Where  the  Lord  of  Being  sends  me; 
His  will  is  the  only  will  I  know, 
And  my  strength  is  the  strength  He  lends 

me; 

Thy  loved  ones  I  hide  'neath  my  waters  dim, 
But  I  cannot  hide  them  away  from  Him!" 
FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES. 

The  reservoir  was  known  to  be  weak,  and  the 
people  below  had  been  warned  of  the  danger  yet 
remained  where  they  were.  When,  just  before 
the  break,  Engineer  John  G.  Parke  galloped  down 
the  valley,  shouting  to  all  to  run  for  their  lives, 
it  was  too  late. 

THE  MAN  WHO  RODE  TO 
CONEMAUGH 

[May  31,  1889] 

INTO  the  town  of  Conemaugh, 

Striking  the  people's  souls  with  awe, 

Dashed  a  rider,  aflame  and  pale, 

Never  alighting  to  tell  his  tale, 

Sitting  his  big  bay  horse  astride. 

"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills!"  he  cried; 

"Run  to  the  hills!"  was  what  he  said, 

As  he  waved  his  hand  and  dashed  ahead. 

"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills!"  he  cried, 
Spurring  his  horse,  whose  reeking  side 
Was  flecked  with  foam  as  red  as  flame. 
Whither  he  goes  and  whence  he  came 
Nobody  knows.    They  see  his  horse 
Plunging  on  in  his  frantic  course, 
Veins  distended  and  nostrils  wide, 
Fired  and  frenzied  at  such  a  ride. 
Nobody  knows  the  rider's  name  — 
Dead  forever  to  earthly  fame. 
"Run  to  the  hills!  to  the  hills!"  he  cried; 
"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain  side!" 

"Stop  him !  he's  mad !  just  look  at  him  go! 
'Tain't  safe,"  they  said,  "to  let  him  ride  so." 
"He  thinks  he  can  scare  us,"  said  one,  with  a 

laugh, 
"  But  Conemaugh  folks  don't  swallow  no  chaff; 


6oo 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


'Tain't  nothing,  I  '11  bet,  but  the  same  old  leak 
In  the  dam  above  the  South  Fork  Creek." 
Blind  to  their  danger,  callous  of  dread, 
They  laughed  as  he  left  them  and  dashed 

ahead. 

"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills!"  he  cried, 
Lashing  his  horse  in  his  desperate  ride. 

Down  through  the  valley  the  rider  passed, 

Shouting,  and  spurring  his  horse  on  fast; 

But  not  so  fast  did  the  rider  go 

As  the  raging,  roaring,  mighty  flow 

Of  the  million  feet  and  the  millions  more 

Of  water  whose  fury  he  fled  before. 

On  he  went,  and  on  it  came, 

The  flood  itself  a  very  flame 

Of  surging,  swirling,  seething  tide, 

Mountain  high  and  torrents  wide. 

God  alone  might  measure  the  force 

Of  the  Conemaugh  flood  in  its  V-shaped 

course. 

Behind  him  were  buried  under  the  flood 
Conemaugh  town  and  all  who  stood 
Jeering  there  at  the  man  who  cried, 
"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain  side!" 

On  he  sped  in  his  fierce,  wild  ride. 
"Run  to  the  hills!  to  the  hills!"  he  cried. 
Nearer,  nearer  raged  the  roar 
Horse  and  rider  fled  before. 
Dashing  along  the  valley  ridge, 
They  came  at  last  to  the  railroad  bridge. 
The  big  horse  stood,  the  rider  cried, 
"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain  side!" 
Then  plunged  across,  but  not  before 
The  mighty,  merciless  mountain  roar 
Struck  the  bridge  and  swept  it  away 
Like  a  bit  of  straw  or  a  wisp  of  hay. 
But  over  and  under  and  through  that  tide 
The  voice  of  the  unknown  rider  cried, 
"Run  to  the  hills!  to  the  hills!"  it  cried,  — 
"Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain  side!" 
JOHN  ELIOT  BOWEN. 

It  is  said  that  another  hero  named  Daniel 
Periton  rode  in  front  of  the  flood  giving  warning, 
and  was  finally  caught  by  it  and  drowned. 

A    BALLAD   OF   THE   CONEMAUGH 
FLOOD 

[May  31,  1889] 

THE  windows  of  Heaven  were  open  wide. 
The  storm  cloud  broke,  and  the  people  cried, 
Will  Conemaugh  dam  hold  out  ? 


But  the  great  folks  down  at  Johnstown  played. 
They  ate,  they  drank,  they  were  nought  afraid, 
For  Conemaugh  dam  holds  Conemaugh  lake, 
By  Conemaugh  dam  their  pleasure  they  take, 
Fine  catching  are  Conemaugh  trout. 

The  four  mile  lake  at  the  back  of  its  wall 
Is  growing  to  five,  and  the  rains  still  fall, 

And  the  flood  by  night  and  by  day 
Is  burrowing  deep  thro'  buttress  and  mound. 
Fresh  waters  spring  and  spurt  from  the  ground ; 
While  God  is  thundering  out  of  His  cloud 
The  fountain  voices  are  crying  aloud, 

Away  to  the  hills!  away! 

Away  to  the  hills!  leave  altar  and  shrine, 
Away  to  the  hills!  leave  table  and  wine, 

Away  from  the  trade  and  your  tills; 
Let  the  strong  man  speed  with  the  weakest 

child, 
And  the  mother  who  just  on  her  babe  has 

smiled 

Be  carried,  leave  only  the  dead  on  their  biers, 
No  time  for  the  tomb,  and  no  time  for  tears; 

Away,  away  to  the  hills! 

Daniel  Periton  heard  the  wail 

Of  the  waters  gathering  over  the  vale, 

With  sorrow  for  city  and  field,  — 
Felt  already  the  mountain  quake 
'Twixt  living  and  dead.  For  the  brethren's 

sake 

Daniel  Periton  dared  to  ride 
Full  in  front  of  the  threatening  tide, 

And  what  if  the  dam  do  yield  ? 

To  a  man  it  is  given  but  once  to  die, 
Though  the  flood  break  forth  he  will  raise  his 
cry 

For  the  thousands  there  in  the  town. 
At  least,  some  child  may  be  saved  by  his  voice, 
Some  lover  may  still  in  the  sun  rejoice, 
Some  man  that  has  fled,  when  he  wins  his 

breath. 
Shall  bless  the  rider  who  rode  thro'  death, 

For  his  fellows'  life  gave  his  own. 

He  leapt  to  his  horse  that  was  black  as  night, 
He  turned  not  left  and  he  turned  not  right, 

Down  to  the  valley  he  dashed ; 
He  heard  behind  him  a  thunderous  boom. 
The  dam  had  burst  and  he  knew  his  doom ; 
"Fly,  fly  for  your  lives!"  it  was  all  he  spoke; 
"  Fly,  fly,  for  the  Conemaugh  dam  has  broke ! " 

And  the  cataract  after  him  crashed. 


CONEMAUGH 


60 1 


They  saw  a  man  with  the  God  in  his  face, 
Pale  from  the  desperate  whirlwind  pace, 

They  heard  an  angel  cry. 
And  the  steed's  black  mane  was  flecked  as  he 

flew. 
And  its  flanks  were  red  with  the  spur's  red 

dew, 

Into  the  city  and  out  of  the  gate, 
Rider  and  ridden  were  racing  with  fate, 
Wild  with  one  agony. 

"  Flash  on  the  news  that  the  dam  has  burst," 
And  one  looked  forth,  and  she  knew  the 
worst, 

"My  last  message!"  she  said. 
The  words  at  her  will  flashed  on  before 
Periton's  call  and  the  torrent's  roar; 
And  not  in  vain  had  Periton  cried, 
His  heart  had  caught  a  brave  heart  to  his 
side, 

As  bold  for  the  saving  he  sped. 

The  flood  came  down  and  its  strong  arms 

took 
The  city,  and  all  together  shook, 

Tower  and  church  and  street, 
Like  a  pack  of  cards  that  a  player  may  crush, 
The  houses  fell  in  the  whirlpool  rush, 
Rose  and  floated  and  jammed  at  the  last, 
Then  a  fierce  flame  fed  by  the  deluge  blast 

Wove  them  a  winding-sheet. 

God  have  mercy !  was  ever  a  pyre 
Lit  like  that  of  the  flood's  fierce  fire! 

Cattle  and  men  caught  fast. 
Prisoners  held  between  life  and  death. 
While  the  flame  struck  down  with  its  sulphur 
ous  breath, 
And  the  flood  struck  up  with  its  strong,  cold 

hand, 
No  hope  from  the  water,  no  help  from  the 

land. 
And  the  torrent  thundering  past! 

Daniel  Periton,  still  he  rides, 

By  the  heaving  flank  and   the  shortening 

strides, 

The  race  must  be  well-nigh  won. 
"Away  to  the  hills!"  but  the  cataract's  bound 
Has  caught  and  has  dashed  him  from  saddle 

to  ground,  — 

And  the  man  who  saw  the  end  of  the  race, 
Saw  a  dark,  dead  horse,  and  a  pale  dead  face, 
Did  they  hear  Heaven's  great "  Well  done"  ? 
HARDWICK  DRUMMOND  RAWNSLEY. 


In  charge  of  the  telegraph  office  at  Johnstown 
was  a  Mrs.  Ogle.  She  stayed  at  her  post,  sending 
message  after  message  of  warning  down  the  val 
ley  until  she  herself  was  overwhelmed  and  swept 
away. 


CONEMAUGH 

" FLY  to  the  mountain !  Fly!" 

Terribly  rang  the  cry. 

The  electric  soul  of  the  wire 

Quivered  like  sentient  fire. 

The  soul  of  the  woman  who  stood 

Face  to  face  with  the  flood 

Answered  to  the  shock 

Like  the  eternal  rock. 
For  she  stayed 

With  her  hand  on  the  wire, 
Unafraid, 

Flashing  the  wild  word  down 

Into  the  lower  town. 

Is  there  a  lower  yet  and  another? 

Into  the  valley  she  and  none  other 

Can  hurl  the  warning  cry: 
"  Fly  to  the  mountain !  Fly ! 

The  water  from  Conemaugh 

Has  opened  its  awful  jaw. 

The  dam  is  wide 

On  the  mountain-side!" 

"Fly  for  your  life,  oh,  fly!" 

They  said. 

She  lifted  her  noble  head : 
"I  can  stay  at  my  post,  and  die." 

Face  to  face  with  duty  and  death, 
Dear  is  the  drawing  of  human  breath. 
"Steady,  my  hand!  Hold  fast 
To  the  trust  upon  thee  cast. 
Steady,  my  wire!  Go,  say 
That  death  is  on  the  way ! 
Steady,  strong  wire!  Go,  save! 
Grand  is  the  power  you  have ! " 

Grander  the  soul  that  can  stand 

Behind  the  trembling  hand ; 

Grander  the  woman  who  dares ; 

Glory  her  high  name  wears. 
"  This  message  is  my  last  I  " 

Shot  over  the  wire,  and  passed 

To  the  listening  ear  of  the  land. 

The  mountain  and  the  strand 

Reverberate  the  cry: 
"  Fly  for  your  lilies,  oh,  fly  I 

I  stay  at  my  post,  and  die." 


602 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  torrent  took  her.   God  knows  all. 
Fiercely  the  savage  currents  fall 
To  muttering  calm.    Men  count  their  dead. 
The  June  sky  smileth  overhead. 
God's  will  we  neither  read  nor  guess. 
Poorer  by  one  more  hero  less, 
We  bow  the  head,  and  clasp  the  hand : 
"Teach  us,  altho'  we  die,  to  stand." 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD. 


On  May  1,  1893,  the  most  remarkable  exposi 
tion  ever  held  in  America  opened  at  Chicago,  to 
celebrate  the  four  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  dis 
covery  of  America.  The  group  of  exposition  build 
ings  soon  became  known  as  "  The  White  City." 

"THE  WHITE  CITY" 


GREECE  was;  Greece  is  no  more. 

Temple  and  town 

Have  crumbled  down; 

Time  is  the  fire  that  hath  consumed  them  all. 

Statue  and  wall 

In  ruin  strew  the  universal  floor. 


Greece  lives,  but  Greece  no  more! 

Its  ashes  breed 

The  undying  seed 

Blown  westward  till,  in  Rome's  imperial  towers, 

Athens  reflowers; 

Still  westward  —  lo,  a  veiled  and  virgin  shore! 


Say  not,  "Greece  is  no  more." 

Through  the  clear  morn 

On  light  winds  borne 

Her  white-winged  soul  sinks  on   the  New 

World's  breast. 
Ah!  happy  West  — 
Greece  flowers  anew,  and  all  her  temples  soar ! 

IV 

One  bright  hour,  then  no  more 

Shall  to  the  skies 

These  columns  rise. 

But  though  art's  flower  shall  fade,  again  the 

seed 

Onward  shall  speed, 
Quickening  the  land  from  lake  to  ocean's  roar. 


Art  lives,  though  Greece  may  never 
From  the  ancient  mold 


As  once  of  old 

Exhale  to  heaven  the  inimitable  bloom; 
Yet  from  that  tomb 

Beauty  walks  forth  to  light  the  world  for 
ever! 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


On  February  2,  1894,  the  famous  old  corvette, 
Kearsarge,  which  destroyed  the  Confederate 
cruiser  Alabama,  off  Cherbourg,  during  the  Civil 
War,  was  wrecked  on  Roncador  reef  in  the  Carib 
bean  Sea. 

THE  KEARSARGE 

[February  2,  1894] 

IN  the  gloomy  ocean  bed 

Dwelt  a  formless  thing,  and  said, 
In  the  dim  and  countless  eons  long  ago, 

"I  will  build  a  stronghold  high, 

Ocean's  power  to  defy, 
And  the  pride  of  haughty  man  to  lay  low." 

Crept  the  minutes  for  the  sad, 

Sped  the  cycles  for  the  glad. 
But  the  march  of  time  was  neither  less  nor 
more; 

While  the  formless  atom  died, 

Myriad  millions  by  its  side. 
And  above  them  slowly  lifted  Roncador. 

Roncador  of  Caribee, 

Coral  dragon  of  the  sea, 
Ever  sleeping  with  his  teeth  below  the  wave; 

Woe  to  him  who  breaks  the  sleep! 

Woe  to  them  who  sail  the  deep! 
Woe  to  ship  and  man  that  fear  a  shipman's 
grave! 

Hither  many  a  galleon  old, 

Heavy-keeled  with  guilty  gold. 
Fled  before  the  hardy  rover  smiting  sore; 

But  the  sleeper  silent  lay 

Till  the  preyer  and  his  prey 
Brought  their  plunder  and  their  bones  to 
Roncador. 

Be  content,  O  conqueror! 
Now  our  bravest  ship  of  war, 
War  and  tempest  who  had  often  braved  be 
fore. 

All  her  storied  prowess  past. 
Strikes  her  glorious  flag  at  last 
To  the  formless  thing  that  builded  Roncador. 
JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


AN  ODE 


603 


In  1896  Tennessee  celebrated  the  one  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  her  admission  to  the  Union, 
by  an  exposition  held  at  Nashville. 

TENNESSEE 

PRIZE  CENTENNIAL  ODE 
[June  1,  1896] 

SHE  is  touching  the  cycle,  —  her  tender  tread 
Is  soft  on  the  hearts  of  her  hallowed  dead, 
And  she  proudly  stands  where  her  sons  have 

bled 
For  God  and  Tennessee; 

Where  the  love  of  her  women  set  the  seal 
Of  the  warrior's  faith  for  the  country's  weal, 
With  hand  on  the  rifle  and  hand  on  the  wheel, 
By  the  altars  of  Tennessee. 

They  have  builded  well  for  the  niche  of  fame, 
Through  the  sleet  of  want  and  the  heat  of 

blame, 

But  the  courage  of  heroes  tried  the  flame, 
As  they  builded  Tennessee. 

T  was  up  to  the  port-holes  and  down  in  the 

dust, 
Not  the  weight  of  might,  but  the  force  of 

must, 

With  faith  and  rifle-bore  free  from  rust, 
They  were  building  Tennessee. 

'T  was  up  in  the  saddle  and  off  to  the  fight, 
Where  arrow  and  tomahawk  shrieked  in  the 

light; 

But  the  sinews  of  pioneers  won  for  the  right,  — 
The  bulwarks  of  Tennessee. 

She  was  true  when  they  pressed  like  a  shad 
owy  fate,  — 

Her  royal  foes  at  her  unbarred  gate,  — 
And  as  true  when  were  menaced  her  Rights 

of  State,  — 
The  mother,  —  Tennessee. 

And  she  gave  of  her  life  for  the  stars  and  bars, 
As  she  gave  of  her  sons  for  the  earlier  wars, 
And  the  breast  of  her  motherhood  wears  the 

scars, 
For  the  manhood  of  Tennessee. 

But  she  wrought  again,  in  the  strength  of 

might, 
In  the  face  of  defeat  and  a  yielded  right, 


The  Cloth  of  Gold  from  the  loom  of  night,  — 
The  mantle  of  Tennessee. 

She  has  given  all  that  she  held  most  dear, 
With  a  Spartan  hope  and  a  Spartan  fear,  — 
Crowned  in  her  statehood  "Volunteer,"  — 
Glorious  Tennessee! 

She  has  rounded  the  cycle,  —  the  tale  is  told ; 
The  circlet  is  iron,  the  clasp  is  gold ; 
And  the  leaves  of  a  wonderful  past  unfold 
The  garland  of  Tennessee. 

And  her  garments  gleam  in  the  sunlit  years, 
And  the  songs  of  her  children  fill  her  ears; 
And  the  listening  heart  of  the  great  world  hears 
The  paeans  of  Tennessee! 

VIRGINIA  FBASER  BOYLE. 


On  May  31,  1897,  a  monument  to  the  memory 
of  Robert  Gould  Shaw,  who  fell  at  the  head  of 
his  colored  regiment  during  the  Civil  War,  was 
unveiled  on  Boston  Common.  The  monument, 
designed  by  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  is  perhaps 
the  most  noteworthy  of  its  kind  in  America. 

AN  ODE 

ON   THE    UNVEILING   OF   THE   SHAW   MEMO 
RIAL  ON  BOSTON  COMMON 

May  31.  1897 


NOT  with  slow,  funereal  sound 
Come  we  to  this  sacred  ground; 
Not  with  wailing  fife  and  solemn  muffled  drum, 
Bringing  a  cypress  wreath 

To  lay,  with  bended  knee, 
On  the  cold  brows  of  Death  — 
Not  so,  dear  God,  we  come, 
But  with  the  trumpets'  blare 
And  shot-torn  battle-banners  flung  to  air, 
As  for  a  victory ! 

Hark  to  the  measured  tread  of  martial  feet, 
The  music  and  the  murmurs  of  the  street ! 

No  bugle  breathes  this  day 

Disaster  and  retreat !  — 

Hark,  how  the  iron  lips 

Of  the  great  battle-ships 
Salute  the  City  from  her  azure  Bay ! 


Time  was — time  was,  ah,  unforgotten  years ! — 
We  paid  our  hero  tribute  of  our  tears. 
But  now  let  go 


604 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


All  sounds  and  signs  and  formulas  of  woe: 
"Tis  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate; 
To  Life,  not  Death,  we  dedicate 
This  storied  bronze,  whereon  is  wrought 
The  lithe  immortal  figure  of  our  thought, 
To  show  forever  to  men's  eyes, 
Our  children's  children's  children's  eyes, 
How  once  he  stood 
In  that  heroic  mood, 
He  and  his  dusky  braves 
So  fain  of  glorious  graves !  — 
One  instant  stood,  and  then 
Drave  through  that  cloud  of  purple  steel  and 

flame, 
Which  wrapt  him,  held  him,  gave  him  not 

again, 

But  in  its  trampled  ashes  left  to  Fame 
An  everlasting  name! 

in 

That  was  indeed  to  live  — 

At  one  bold  swoop  to  wrest 

From  darkling  death  the  best 

That  death  to  life  can  give. 

He  fell  as  Roland  fell 

That  day  at  Roncevaux, 
With  foot  upon  the  ramparts  of  the  foe! 

A  paean,  not  a  knell, 

For  heroes  dying  so! 

No  need  for  sorrow  here, 

No  room  for  sigh  or  tear, 
Save    such    rich    tears    as  happy  eyelids 
know. 

See  where  he  rides,  our  Knight! 

Within  his  eyes  the  light 
Of    battle,    and  youth's  gold   about  his 

brow; 
Our  Paladin,  our  Soldier  of  the  Cross, 

Not  weighing  gain  with  loss  — 

World-loser,  that  won  all 

Obeying  duty's  call ! 

Not  his,  at  peril's  frown, 

A  pulse  of  quicker  beat; 

Not  his  to  hesitate 

And  parley  hold  with  Fate, 

But  proudly  to  fling  down 

His  gauntlet  at  her  feet. 
O  soul  of  loyal  valor  and  white  truth, 

Here,  by  this  iron  gate. 
Thy  serried  ranks  about  thee  as  of  yore, 

Stand  thou  for  evermore 

In  thy  undying  youth! 
The  tender  heart,  the  eagle  eye! 

Oh,  unto  him  belong 

The  homages  of  Song; 


Our  praises  and  the  praise 
Of  coming  days 
To  him  belong  — 

To  him,  to  him,  the  dead  that  shall  not  die! 
THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


The  years  1897  and  1898  witnessed  a  great  rush 
of  gold-seekers  to  Alaska,  where  placer  gold  in 
large  quantities  had  been  discovered,  the  year  be 
fore,  in  the  Yukon  district  on  Klondike  Creek. 

THE  KLONDIKE 

[1898] 

NEVER  mind  the  day  we  left,  or  the  way  the 

women  clung  to  us; 
Art  we  need  now  is  the  last  way  they  looked 

at  us. 
Never  mind  the  twelve  men  there  amid  the 

cheering  — 
Twelve  men  or  one  man,  't  will  soon  be  all 

the  same; 
For  this  is  what  we  know:  we  are  five  men 

together, 
Five  left  o'  twelve  men  to  find  the  golden  river. 

Far  we  came  to  find  it  out,  but  the  place  was 
here  for  all  of  us; 

Far,  far  we  came,  and  here  we  have  the  last 
of  us. 

We  that  were  the  front  men,  we  that  would 
be  early, 

We  that  had  the  faith,  and  the  triumph  in  our 
eyes: 

We  that  had  the  wrong  road,  twelve  men  to 
gether,  — 

Singing  when  the  devil  sang  to  find  the  golden 
river. 

Say  the  gleam  was  not  for  us,  but  never  say 
we  doubted  it; 

Say  the  wrong  road  was  right  before  we  fol 
lowed  it. 

We  that  were  the  front  men,  fit  for  all  forage, — 

Say  that  while  we  dwindle  we  are  front  men 
still; 

For  this  is  what  we  know  to-night :  we  're 
starving  here  together  — 

Starving  on  the  wrong  road  to  find  the  golden 
river. 

Wrong,  we  say,  but  wait  a  little:  hear  him  in 

the  corner  there; 
He  knows  more  than  we,  and  he  '11  tell  us  if 

we  listen  there  — 


THE   KLONDIKE 


605 


He  that  fought  the  snow-sleep  less  than  all 

the  others 

Stays  awhile  yet,  and  he  knows  where  he  stays : 
Foot  and  hand  a  frozen  clout,  brain  a  freezing 

feather, 
Still  he's  here  to  talk  with  us  and  to  the  golden 

river. 

"Flow,"  he  says,  "and  flow  along,  but  you 

cannot  flow  away  from  us; 
All  the  world's  ice  will  never  keep  you  far 

from  us; 
Every  man  that  heeds  your  call  takes  the  way 

that  leads  him  — 
The  one  way  that 's  his  way,  and  lives  his 

own  life: 
Starve  or  laugh,  the  game  goes  on,  and  on 

goes  the  river; 
Gold  or  no,  they  go  their  way  —  twelve  men 

together. 

"Twelve."  he  says,  "who  sold  their  shame  for 

a  lure  you  call  too  fair  for  them  — 
You  that  laugh  and  flow  to  the  same  word  that 

urges  them: 
Twelve  who  left  the  old  town  shining  in  the 

sunset, 

Left  the  weary  street  and  the  small  safe  days: 
Twelve  who  knew  but  one  way  out,  wide  the 

way  or  narrow: 
Twelve  who  took  the  frozen  chance  and  laid 

their  lives  on  yellow. 

"Flow  by  night  and  flow  by  day,  nor  ever 

once  be  seen  by  them; 
Flow,  freeze,  and  flow,  till  time  shall  hide  the 

bones  of  them : 
Laugh  and  wash  their  names  away,  leave 

them  all  forgotten. 

Leave  the  old  town  to  crumble  where  it  sleeps ; 
Leave  it  there  as  they  have  left  it,  shining  in 

the  valley,  — 
Leave  the  town  to  crumble  down  and  let  the 

women  marry. 

"Twelve  of  us  or  five,"  he  says,  "we  know 

the  night  is  on  us  now: 
Five  while  we  last,  and  we  may  as  well  be 

thinking  now: 
Thinking  each  his  own  thought,  knowing, 

when  the  light  comes, 
Five  left  or  none  left,  the  game  will  not  be  lost. 


Crouch  or  sleep,  we  go  the  way,  the  last  way 

together : 
Five  or  none,  the  game  goes  on,  and  on  goes 

the  river. 

"  For  after  all  that  we  have  done  and  all  that 

we  have  failed  to  do, 
Life  will  be  life  and  the  world  will  have  its 

work  to  do: 
Every  man  who  follows  us  will  heed  in  his 

own  fashion 
The  calling  and  the  warning  and  the  friends 

who  do  not  know : 
Each  will  hold  an  icy  knife  to  punish  his 

heart's  lover. 
And  each  will  go  the  frozen  way  to  find  the 

golden  river." 

There  you  hear  him,  all  he  says,  and  the  last 

we'll  ever  get  from  him. 
Now  he  wants  to  sleep,  and  that  will  be  the 

best  for  him. 
Let  him  have  his  own  way  —  no,  you  need  n't 

shake  him  — 

Your  own  turn  will  come,  so  let  the  man  sleep. 
For  this  is  what  we  know:  we  are  stalled  here 

together  — 
Hands  and  feet  and  hearts  of  us,  to  find  the 

golden  river. 

And  there 's  a  quicker  way  than  sleep  ?   .   .   . 

Never  mind  the  looks  of  him : 
All  he  needs  now  is  a  finger  on  the  eyes  of  him. 
You  there  on  the  left  hand ,  reach  a  little  over  — 
Shut  the  stars  away,  or  he  '11  see  them  all  night : 
He'll  see  them  all  night  and  he'll  see  them 

all  to-morrow, 
Crawling  down  the  frozen  sky,  cold  and  hard 

and  yellow. 

Won't  you  move  an  inch  or  two  —  to  keep  the 

stars  away  from  him  ? 
—  No,  he  won't  move,  and  there's  no  need 

of  asking  him. 
Never  mind  the  twelve  men,  never  mind  the 

women ; 

Three  while  we  last,  we'll  let  them  all  go; 
And  we'll  hold  our  thoughts  north  while  we 

starve  here  together, 
Looking  each  his  own  way  to  find  the  golden 

river. 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON. 


6o6 


POEMS  OF   AMERICAN   HISTORY 


CHAPTER  V 


THE   WAR   WITH   SPAIN 


For  three  centuries  and  a  half,  Spain  held  pos 
session  of  the  island  of  Cuba,  although  she  had  loat. 
long  before,  her  possessions  in  North  and  South 
America.  The  Cubans  desired  freedom,  for  the 
Spanish  yoke  was  a  galling  one,  and  as  early  as 
1822  sympathy  with  this  desire  was  openly  ex 
pressed  in  the  United  States. 

APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  ISLAND 
OF  CUBA 

[November.  1822] 

THERE  is  blood  on  thy  desolate  shore, 
Thou  island  of  plunder  and  slaves ! 
Thy  billows  are  purpled  with  gore, 

And  murder  has  crimsoned  thy  waves; 
The  vengeance  of  nations  will  come, 

And  wrath  shall  be  rained  on  thy  head, 
And  in  terror  thy  voice  shall  be  dumb. 

When  they  ask  for  their  brothers  who  bled. 
Thy  hand  was  not  stirred,  when  their  life- 
blood  was  spilt; 

And  therefore  that  hand  must  partake  in  the 
guilt. 

Thou  art  guilty  or  weak,  —  and  the  rod 

Should  be  wrenched  from  thy  palsied  hand ; 
By  the  pirate  thy  green  fields  are  trod, 
And  his  steps  have  polluted  thy  land ; 
Unmoved  is  thy  heart  and  thine  eye, 

When  our  dear  ones  are  tortured  and  slai  n ; 
But  their  blood  with  a  terrible  cry. 

Calls  on  vengeance,  and  calls  not  in  vain ; 
If  Europe  regard  not — our  land  shall  awake. 
And  thy  walls  and  thy  turrets  shall  tremble 
and  shake. 

The  voice  of  a  world  shall  be  heard. 

And  thy  faith  shall  be  tried  by  the  call; 
And  that  terrible  voice  shall  be  feared. 

And  obeyed  —  or  the  proud  one  shall  fall. 
Enough  of  our  life  has  been  shed, 

In  watching  and  fighting  for  thee; 
If  thy  foot  linger  still  —  on  thy  head 

The  guilt  and  the  vengeance  shall  be: 
We  have  sworn  that  the  spirit  of  ALLEN  shall 

lead. 

And  our  wrath  shall  not  rest,  till  we  finish  the 
deed. 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 


The  people  of  Cuba  revolted  against  their 
Spanish  rulers  in  1848,  and  kept  up  a  guerilla 
warfare  for  some  years.  In  August,  1851,  a 
filibustering  expedition,  led  by  Narciso  Lopez, 
sailed  from  New  Orleans.  The  expedition  was 
captured,  and  most  of  its  members  were  executed, 
among  them  Lopez  himself,  and  Colonel  William 
L.  Crittenden,  of  Kentucky,  who,  with  fifty  others, 
was  shot  at  Havana,  August  16. 


THE  GALLANT  FIFTY-ONE 

WHO  FORMED  PART  OF  THE  LOPEZ  EXPEDI 
TION  AND  WERE  EXECUTED  BY  THE  SPAN 
ISH  AUTHORITIES  IN  HAVANA 

[August  16,  1851] 

FREEDOM  called  them  —  up  they  rose. 
Grasped  their  swords  and  showered  blows 
On  the  heads  of  Freedom's  foes  — 

And  Freedom's  foes  alone. 
Fate  decreed  that  they  should  die; 
Pitying  angels  breathed  a  sigh; 
Freedom  wildly  wept  on  high, 

For  the  gallant  Fifty-one! 

There  they  stood  in  proud  array; 
None  for  mercy  there  would  pray; 
None  would  coward  looks  betray  — 

All  stood  forth  with  fearless  eye, 
Showing  by  their  dauntless  air, 
What  their  noble  souls  could  dare; 
Showing  to  the  tyrants  there, 

How  Freedom's  sons  could  die. 

None  there  strove  their  fate  to  shun  — 

Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one! 

Then  a  voice  the  stillness  broke: 
'T  was  their  gallant  leader  spoke, 
Scorning  to  receive  Death's  stroke, 

Kneeling  humbly  on  the  sod ! 
Gazing  calmly  on  the  dead, 
Whose  life-blood  had  just  been  shed. 
Proudly  then  the  words  he  said, 

"Americans  kneel  but  to  God!" 

Perished  thus  Kentucky's  son  — 

Leader  of  the  Fifty-one. 

Rejoice!  sons  of  Thermopylae! 
Kindred  spirits  join  with  thee, 


THE   GOSPEL   OF  PEACE 


607 


Who  fell  in  6ght  for  Liberty, 

For  Freedom's  sacred  name. 
Future  days  their  deeds  shall  tell, 
How  they  nobly  fought  and  fell, 
Youthful  bosoms  proudly  swell 
At  mention  of  their  fame  — 
Rays  of  light  from  Freedom's  sun, 
Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one! 

Honor's  rays  will  ever  shed 
Glory  'round  their  hallowed  bed. 
Though  their  hearts  are  cold  and  dead, 

Though  their  sands  of  life  have  run, 
Still  their  names  revered  will  be, 
Among  the  noble  and  the  free  — 
Glorious  sons  of  Liberty; 

Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one! 

HENRY  LYNDEN  FLASH. 


Spain  at  last  found  it  necessary  to  put  the 
whole  island  under  martial  law,  and  American 
sympathy  grew  more  outspoken. 

CUBA 

[1870] 

Is  it  naught?  Is  it  naught 
That  the  South-wind  brings  her  wail  to  our 

shore, 
That  the  spoilers    compass  our  desolate 

sister  ? 
Is  it  naught?  Must  we  say  to  her,  "Strive  no 

more," 
With  the  lips  wherewith  we  loved  her  and 

kissed  her? 
\Vith  the  mocking  lips  wherewith  we  said, 

"Thou  art  the  dearest  and  fairest  to  us 
Of  all  the  daughters  the  sea  hath  bred, 
Of  all  green-girdled  isles  that  woo  us!" 
Is  it  naught? 

Must  ye  wait  ?  Must  ye  wait, 
Till  they  ravage  her  gardens  of  orange  and 

palm, 
Till  her  heart  is  dust,  till  her  strength  is 

water  ? 

Must  ye  see  them  trample  her,  and  be  calm 
As  priests  when  a  virgin  is  led  to  slaughter  ? 
Shall  they  smite  the  marvel  of  all  lands,  — 
The  nation's  longing,  the  Earth's  complete 
ness,  — 

On  her  red  mouth  dropping  myrrh,  her  hands 
Filled  with  fruitage  and  spice  and  sweet 
ness? 
Must  ye  wait  ? 


In  the  day,  in  the  night, 
In  the  burning  day,  in  the  dolorous  night, 
Her  sun-browned  cheeks  are  stained  with 

weeping. 

Her  watch-fires  beacon  the  misty  height :  — 
Why  are  her  friends  and  lovers  sleeping? 
"  Ye,  at  whose  ear  the  flatterer  bends, 

Who  were  my  kindred  before  all  others,  — 
Hath  he  set  your  hearts  afar,  my  friends  ? 
Hath  he  made  ye  alien,  my  brothers, 
Day  and  night?" 

Hear  ye  not  ?  Hear  ye  not 
From  the  hollow  sea  the  sound  of  her  voice ; 
The  passionate  far-off  tone  which  sayeth: 
"Alas,  my  brothers!  alas,  what  choice,  — 
The   lust   that   shameth,   the   sword   that 

slayeth  ? 

They  bind  me!  they  rend  my  delicate  locks; 

They  shred  the  beautiful  robes  I  won  me ! 

My  round  limbs  bleed  on  the  mountain  rocks : 

Save  me,  ere  they  have  quite  undone  me!" 

Hear  ye  not  ? 

Speak  at  last!  Speak  at  last! 
In  the  might  of  your  strength,  in  the  strength 

of  your  right, 

Speak  out  at  last  to  the  treacherous  spoiler ! 
Say:  "Will  ye  harry  her  in  our  sight? 

Ye  shall  not  trample  her  down,  nor  soil  her ! 
Loose  her  bonds!   let  her  rise  in  her  loveli 
ness,  — 

Our  virginal  sister;  or,  if  ye  shame  her, 
Dark  Amnon  shall  rue  for  her  sore  distress, 
And   her  sure  revenge  shall  be  that  of 

Tamar!" 
Speak  at  last! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

Then  in  1873  came  what  was  certain  to  come, 
sooner  or  later,  an  outrage  by  Spain  against  the 
United  States.  The  Virginius,  a  vessel  of  American 
register,  was  captured  on  the  high  seas  by  a  Span 
ish  gunboat,  taken  to  a  Cuban  port,  and  some  fifty 
of  her  officers  and  crew,  Americans  for  the  most 
part ,  summarily  shot.  America  was  wild  with  rage, 
but  Spain  was  permitted  to  settle  by  paying  an 
indemnity. 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  PEACE 

[1873] 

AY,  let  it  rest!  And  give  us  peace. 

'T  is  but  another  blot 
On  Freedom's  fustian  flag,  and  gold 

Will  gild  the  unclean  spot. 


6o8 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Yes,  fold  the  hands,  and  bear  the  wrong 

As  Christians  over-meek, 
And  wipe  away  the  bloody  stain, 

And  turn  the  other  cheek. 

What  boots  the  loss  of  freemen's  blood 

Beside  imperilled  gold  ? 
Is  honor  more  than  merchandise? 

And  cannot  pride  be  sold  ? 

Let  Cuba  groan,  let  patriots  fall; 

Americans  may  die; 
Our  flag  may  droop  in  foul  disgrace, 

But  "Peace!"  be  still  our  cry. 

Ay,  give  us  peace!  And  give  us  truth 

To  nature,  to  resign 
The  counterfeit  which  Freedom  wears 

Upon  her  banner  fine. 

Remove  the  Stars,  —  they  light  our  shame ; 

But  keep  the  Stripes  of  gore 
And  craven  White,  to  tell  the  wrong 

A  prudent  nation  bore. 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


The  insurrection  in  Cuba  dragged  on,  its  hor 
rors  steadily  increasing,  and  at  last,  in  1875,  the 
American  government  intimated  that  if  Spain 
did  not  stop  the  war,  foreign  intervention  might 
become  necessary.  Spain  took  the  hint  and  ended 
the  struggle  by  granting  Cuba  certain  reforms. 

CUBA 

ISLE  of  a  summer  sea, 

Fragrant  with  Eden's  flowers, 

God  meant  thee  to  be  free. 
And  wills  thee  to  be  ours! 

The  blood  of  generous  hearts 
Has  freely  drenched  thy  soil; 

That  blood  but  strength  imparts, 
Which  tyrants  cannot  foil! 

Within  thy  fair  retreat, 

'Mid  victory  and  flame. 
Thy  sons  shall  yet  repeat 

Huzzas  in  Freedom's  name! 

Yet,  where  his  ashes  rest. 

Whose  eye  revealed  a  world, 
From  towers  and  mountain  crest, 

Our  flag  shall  be  unfurled ! 


In  truth,  it  is  but  just, 

That  Freedom's  hand  should  hold, 
Confided  to  her  trust, 

The  key  to  lands  of  gold ! 

HARVEY  RICE. 

But  with  a  cynical  disregard  of  good  faith, 
Spain  kept  only  such  of  her  promises  as  she 
pleased;  increased  abuses  followed,  and  in  1895 
revolution  flamed  out  again.  Under  such  leaders 
as  Gomez,  Maceo,  and  Garcia,  the  revolutionists 
soon  gained  control  of  most  of  the  provinces. 

CUBA  TO  COLUMBIA 

[April,  1896] 

A  VOICE  went  over  the  waters  — 

A  stormy  edge  of  the  sea  — 
Fairest  of  Freedom's  daughters, 

Have  you  no  help  for  me  ? 
Do  you  not  hear  the  rusty  chain 

Clanking  about  my  feet? 
Have  you  not  seen  my  children  slain, 

Whether  in  cell  or  street? 
Oh,  if  you  were  sad  as  I, 

And  I  as  you  were  strong. 
You  would  not  have  to  call  or  cry  — 

You  would  not  suffer  long! 

Patience?  "  — have  I  not  learned  it, 

Under  the  crushing  years? 
Freedom  —  have  I  not  earned  it. 

Toiling  with  blood  and  tears? 
"Not  of  you  ?"  —  my  banners  wave 

Not  on  Egyptian  shore, 
Or  by  Armenia's  mammoth  grave  — 

But  at  your  very  door ! 
Oh,  if  you  were  needy  as  I, 

And  I  as  you  were  strong, 
You  should  not  suffer,  bleed,  and  die, 

Under  the  hoofs  of  wrong! 

Is  it  that  you  have  never 

Felt  the  oppressor's  hand, 
Fighting,  with  fond  endeavor, 

To  cling  to  your  own  sweet  land  ? 
Were  you  not  half  dismayed. 

There  in  the  century's  night, 
Till  to  your  view  a  sister's  aid 

Came,  like  a  flash  of  light  ? 
Oh,  what  gift  could  ever  be  grand 

Enough  to  pay  the  debt, 
If  out  of  the  starry  Western  land, 

Should  come  my  Lafayette! 

WILL  CARLETON. 


THE   MEN   OF   THE   MAINE 


609 


American  sympathy  was  soon  awakened,  and 
grew  rapidly  in  strength.  This  was  increased 
when  Spain  placed  Valeriano  Weyler  in  command 
in  Cuba.  Weyler  had  an  evil  reputation  for  cruelty 
and  extortion,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  make 
it  more  evil  by  exterminating  the  "  pacificos,"  or 
quiet  people  who  were  taking  no  active  part  in 
the  war. 

CUBA  LIBRE 

COMES  a  cry  from  Cuban  water  — 

From  the  warm,  dusk  Antilles  — 
From  the  lost  Atlanta's  daughter, 

Drowned  in  blood  as  drowned  in  seas; 
Comes  a  cry  of  purpled  anguish  — 

See  her  struggles,  hear  her  cries! 
Shall  she  live,  or  shall  she  languish  ? 

Shall  she  sink,  or  shall  she  rise  ? 

She  shall  rise,  by  all  that's  holy! 

She  shall  live  and  she  shall  last; 
Rise  as  we,  when  crushed  and  lowly, 

From  the  blackness  of  the  past. 
Bid  her  strike!  Lo,  it  is  written 

Blood  for  blood  and  life  for  life. 
Bid  her  smite,  as  she  is  smitten; 

Stars  and  stripes  were  born  of  strife. 

Once  we  flashed  her  lights  of  freedom, 

Lights  that  dazzled  her  dark  eyes 
Till  she  could  but  yearning  heed  them, 

Reach  her  hands  and  try  to  rise. 
Then  they  stabbed  her,  choked  her,  drowned 
her 

Till  we  scarce  could  hear  a  note. 
Ah!  these  rusting  chains  that  bound  her! 

Oh !  these  robbers  at  her  throat ! 

And  the  kind  who  forged  these  fetters  ? 

Ask  five  hundred  years  for  news. 
Stake  and  thumbscrew  for  their  betters! 

Inquisitions!    Banished  Jews! 
Chains  and  slavery!    What  reminder 

Of  one  red  man  in  that  land  ? 
Why,  these  very  chains  that  bind  her 

Bound  Columbus,  foot  and  hand ! 

Shall  she  rise  as  rose  Columbus, 

From  his  chains,  from  shame  and  wrong  — 
Rise  as  Morning,  matchless,  wondrous  — 

Rise  as  some  rich  morning  song  — 
Rise  a  ringing  song  and  story, 

Valor,  Love  personified  ? 
Stars  and  stripes  espouse  her  glory, 

Love  and  Liberty  allied. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


The  situation  of  Americans  in  Havana  began 
to  cause  uneasiness,  and  it  was  decided  to  send 
a  ship  of  war  to  that  port.  The  battleship  Maine 
was  selected  for  this  duty,  and  reached  Havana 
on  the  morning  of  January  24,  1893. 


THE   PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS' 

UNTRAMMELLED  Giant  of  the  West, 
With  all  of  Nature's  gifts  endowed, 

With  all  of  Heaven's  mercies  blessed, 
Nor  of  thy  power  unduly  proud  — 

Peerless  in  courage,  force,  and  skill, 

And  godlike  in  thy  strength  of  will,  — 

Before  thy  feet  the  ways  divide: 
One  path  leads  up  to  heights  sublime; 

The  other  downward  slopes,  where  bide 
The  refuse  and  the  wrecks  of  Time. 

Choose  then,  nor  falter  at  the  start, 

O  choose  the  nobler  path  and  part! 

Be  thou  the  guardian  of  the  weak. 
Of  the  unfriended,  thou  the  friend; 

No  guerdon  for  thy  valor  seek, 
No  end  beyond  the  avowed  end. 

Wouldst  thou  thy  godlike  power  preserve, 

Be  godlike  in  the  will  to  serve! 

JOSEPH  B.  GILDER. 

On  the  morning  of  February  16,  1898,  the  news 
flashed  over  the  country  that  on  the  previous 
evening  the  Maine  had  been  blown  up  at  her 
anchorage,  and  that  two  hundred  and  sixty-four 
men  and  two  officers  had  been  killed. 

THE   MEN   OF   THE   MAINE 

[February  15,  1898] 

NOT  in  the  dire,  ensanguined  front  of  war, 

Conquered  or  conqueror, 

'Mid    the    dread    battle-peal,   did    they  go 

down 

To  the  still  under-seas,  with  fair  Renown 
To  weave  for  them  the  hero-martyr's  crown. 
They  struck  no  blow 
'Gainst  an  embattled  foe; 
With  valiant-hearted  Saxon  hardihood 
They  stood  not  as  the  Essex  sailors  stood, 
So  sore  bestead  in  that  far  Chilian  bay; 
Yet  no  less  faithful  they, 
These  men  who,  in  a  passing  of  the  breath, 
Were  hurtled  upon  death. 

1  Copyright,  1900,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


6io 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


No  warning  the  salt-scented  sea-wind  bore, 
No  presage  whispered  from  the  Cuban  shore 
Of  the  appalling  fate 
That  in  the  tropic  night-time  lay  in  wait 
To  bear  them  whence  they  shall  return  no 

more. 
Some  lapsed  from  dreams  of  home  and  love's 

clear  star 

Into  a  realm  where  dreams  eternal  are; 
And  some  into  a  world  of  wave  and  flame 
Wherethrough  they  came 
To  living  agony  that  no  words  can  name. 
Tears  for  them  all. 
And  the  low-tuned  dirge  funereal! 

Their  place  is  now 

With  those  who  wear,  green-set  about  thebrow, 
The  deathless  immortelles,  — 
The  heroes  torn  and  scarred 
Whose  blood  made  red  the  barren  ocean  dells. 
Fighting  with  him  the  gallant  Ranger  bore, 
Daring  to  do  what  none  had  dared  before, 
To  wave  the  New  World  banner,  freedom- 
starred, 

At  England's  very  door ! 
Yea,  with  such  noble  ones  their  names  shall 

stand 

As  those  who  heard  the  dying  Lawrence  speak 
His  burning  words  upon  the  Chesapeake, 
And  grappled  in  the  hopeless  hand-to-hand; 
With  those  who  fell  on  Erie  and  Champlain 
Beneath  the  pouring,  pitiless  battle-rain: 
With  such  as  these,  our  lost  men  of  the  Maine ! 

WTiat  though  they  faced  no  storm  of  iron  hail 
That  freedom  and  the  right  might  still  pre 
vail? 

The  path  of  duty  it  was  theirs  to  tread 
To  death's  dark  vale  through  wavs  of  travail 

led, 

And  they  are  ours  —  our  dead ! 
If  it  be  true  that  each  loss  holds  a  gain, 
It  must  be  ours  through  saddened  eyes  to  see 
From  out  this  tragic  holocaust  of  pain 
The  whole  land  bound  in  closer  amity! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD 
FROM  HAVANA 

[February  16,  1898] 

THUS  spake  the  Lord : 
Because  ye  have  not  heard, 


Because  ye  have  given  no  heed 
To  my  people  in  their  need, 

Because  the  oppressed  cried 
From  the  dust  where  he  died. 
And  ye  turned  your  face  away 
From  his  cry  in  that  day, 

Because  ye  have  bought  and  sold 
That  which  is  above  gold, 
Because  your  brother  is  slain 
While  ye  get  you  drunk  with  gain, 

(Behold,  these  are  my  people,  I  have  brought 

them  to  birth, 

On  whom  the  mighty  have  trod, 
The  kings  of  the  earth, 
Saith  the  Lord  God !) 

Because  ye  have  fawned  and  bowed  down 

Lest  the  spoiler  frown, 

And    the    wrongs    that    the    spoiled    have 

borne 
Ye  have  held  in  scorn, 

Therefore  with  rending  and  flame 
I  have  marred  and  smitten  you, 
Therefore  I  have  given  you  to  shame, 
That  the  nations  shall  spit  on  you. 

Therefore  my  Angel  of  Death 
Hath  stretched  out  his  hand  on  you, 
Therefore  I  speak  in  my  wrath, 
Laying  command  on  you; 

(Once  have  I  bared  my  sword. 

And  the  kings  of  the  earth  gave  a  cry; 

Twice  have  I  bared  my  sword. 

That  the  kings  of  the  earth  should  die; 

Thrice  shall  I  bare  my  sword, 

And  ye  shall  know  my  name,  that  it  is  I !) 

Ye  who  held  peace  less  than  right 
When  a  king  laid  a  pitiful  tax  on  you, 
Hold  not  your  hand  from  the  fight 
When  freedom  cries  under  the  axe  on  you ! 

(I  who  called  France  to  you,  call  you  to  Cuba 

in  turn ! 
Repay  —  lest  I  cast  you  adrift  and  you  perish 

astern!) 

Ye  who  made  war  that  your  ships 
Should  lay  to  at  the  beck  of  no  nation, 


THE  FIGHTING   RACE 


611 


Make  war  now  on  Murder,  that  slips 
The  leash  of  her  hounds  of  damnation ! 

Ye  who  remembered  the  Alamo, 
Remember  the  Maine! 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 

HALF-MAST 

'[February  16,  1898] 

ON  every  schoolhouse,  ship,  and  staff 
From  'Frisco  clear  to  Marblehead, 

Let  droop  the  starry  banner  now, 
In  sorrow  for  our  sailors  dead. 

Half-mast!    Half-mast!  o'er  all  the  land; 

The  verdict  wait;  your  wrath  restrain; 
Half-mast  for  all  that  gallant  band  — 

The  sailors  of  the  Maine! 

Not  till  a  treachery  is  proved 

His  sword  the  patriot  soldier  draws; 

War  is  the  last  alternative  — 

Be  patient  till  ye  know  the  cause. 

Meanwhile  —  Half-mast  o'er  all  the  land ! 

The  verdict  wait;  your  wrath  restrain; 
Half-mast!  for  all  that  gallant  band  — 

The  martyrs  of  the  Maine! 

LLOYD  MIFFLIN. 

THE  FIGHTING   RACE 

[February  16,  1898] 

"  READ  out  the  names ! "  and  Burke  sat  back, 

And  Kelly  drooped  his  head, 
While  Shea  —  they  call  him  Scholar  Jack  — 

Went  down  the  list  of  the  dead. 
Officers,  seamen,  gunners,  marines, 

The  crews  of  the  gig  and  yawl, 
The  bearded  man  and  the  lad  in  his  teens, 

Carpenters,  coal  passers  —  all. 
Then,  knocking  the  ashes  from  out  his  pipe. 

Said  Burke  in  an  offhand  way: 
"We're  all  in  that  dead  man's  list  by  Cripe! 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here's  to  the  Maine,  and  I'm  sorry 
for  Spain," 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"Wherever  there's  Kellys  there's  trouble," 
said  Burke. 

"Wherever  fighting's  the  game, 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  grown  man's  work." 

Said  Kelly,  "you'll  find  my  name." 


"And  do  we  fall  short,"  said  Burke,  getting 

mad, 

"When  it's  touch  and  go  for  life?" 
Said  Shea,  "It's  thirty-odd  years,  bedad, 

Since  I  charged  to  drum  and  fife 
Up  Marye's  Heights,  and  my  old  canteen 

Stopped  a  rebel  ball  on  its  way; 
There  were  blossoms  of  blood  on  our  sprigs 

of  green  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea  — 
And  the  dead  did  n't  brag."    "Well,  here's 

to  the  flag!" 
Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"I  wish  'twas  in  Ireland,  for  there's  the  place," 

Said  Burke,  "that  we'd  die  by  right, 
In  the  cradle  of  our  soldier  race, 

After  one  good  stand-up  fight. 
My  grandfather  fell  on  Vinegar  Hill, 

And  fighting  was  not  his  trade; 
But  his  rusty  pike 's  in  the  cabin  still. 

With  Hessian  blood  on  the  blade." 
"Aye,  aye,"  said  Kelly,  "the  pikes  were  great 

When  the  word  was  'clear  the  way!' 
We  were  thick  on  the  roll  in  ninety-eight  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here's  to  the  pike  and  the  sword  and 
the  like!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

And  Shea,  the  scholar,  with  rising  joy, 

Said,  "We  were  at  Ramillies; 
We  left  our  bones  at  Fontenoy 

And  up  in  the  Pyrenees; 
Before  Dunkirk,  on  Landen's  plain, 

Cremona,  Lille,  and  Ghent; 
We're  all  over  Austria,  France,  and  Spain, 

Wherever  they  pitched  a  tent. 
W7e've  died  for  England  from  Waterloo 

To  Egypt  and  Dargai; 
And  still  there 's  enough  for  a  corps  or  crew, 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here's  to  good  honest  fighting  blood !" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"Oh,  the  fighting  races  don't  die  out, 

If  they  seldom  die  in  bed. 
For  love  is  first  in  their  hearts,  no  doubt," 

Said  Burke ;  then  Kelly  said : 
"When  Michael,  the  Irish  Archangel,  stands, 

The  angel  with  the  sword, 
And  the  battle-dead  from  a  hundred  lands 

Are  ranged  in  one  big  horde, 
Our  line,  that  for  Gabriel's  trumpet  waits, 

Will  stretch  three  deep  that  day, 


6l2 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


From  Jehoshaphat  to  the  Golden  Gates  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here's  thank  God  for  the  race  and  the 

sod!" 
Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

JOSEPH  I.  C.  CLARKE. 

A  wave  of  fierce  wrath  swept  over  the  Ameri 
can  people;  but  Captain  Sigsbee,  of  the  destroyed 
ship,  asked  that  judgment  be  suspended  until  the 
cause  of  the  accident  had  been  investigated. 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  WAR 

O  GOD  of  Battles,  who  art  still 
The  God  of  Love,  the  God  of  Rest, 

Subdue  thy  people's  fiery  will. 
And  quell  the  passions  in  their  breast! 

Before  we  bathe  our  hands  in  blood 

We  lift  them  to  thy  Holy  Rood. 

The  waiting  nations  hold  their  breath 
To  catch  the  dreadful  battle-cry; 

And  in  the  silence  as  of  death 
The  fateful  hours  go  softly  by. 

Oh,  hear  thy  people  where  they  pray, 

And  shrive  our  souls  before  the  fray ! 

Before  the  sun  of  peace  shall  set, 
We  kneel  apart  a  solemn  while; 

Pity  the  eyes  with  sorrow  wet, 
But  pity  most  the  lips  that  smile. 

The  night  comes  fast;  we  hear  afar 

The  baying  of  the  wolves  of  war. 

Not  lightly,  oh,  not  lightly,  Lord, 
Let  this  our  awful  task  begin ; 
Speak  from  thy  throne  a  warning  word 

Above  the  angry  factions'  din. 
If  this  be  thy  Most  Holy  will, 
Be  with  us  still,  —  be  with  us  still ! 

DANSKE  DANDRIDGE. 
Good  Friday,  1898. 


Spain,  without  waiting  for  investigation,  an 
nounced  that  the  Maine  had  been  blown  up  by  an 
explosion  of  her  magazines,  due  to  the  careless 
ness  of  her  officers.  The  American  people  waited 
in  ominous  silence  for  the  investigation  to  be  con 
cluded. 

TO  SPAIN  — A  LAST  WORD 

IBERIAN  !  palter  no  more !    By  thine  hands, 

thine  alone,  they  were  slain! 
Oh,  *t  was  a  deed  in  the  dark  — 


Yet  mark ! 

We  will  show  you  a  way  —  only  one  —  by 
which  ye  may  blot  out  the  stain ! 

Build   them  a  monument  whom  to  death- 
sleep,  in  their  sleep,  ye  betrayed ! 
Proud  and  stern  let  it  be  — 

Cuba  free! 

So,  only,  the  stain  shall  be  razed  —  so,  only, 
the  great  debt  be  paid ! 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS. 


Meanwhile,  the  sailor  dead  were  buried  in  the 
cemetery  at  Havana,  with  impressive  ceremony. 
They  were  afterwards  disinterred  and  placed  in 
the  military  cemetery  at  Arlington  on  the  Poto 
mac. 

THE  MARTYRS  OF  THE  MAINE 

AND  they  have  thrust  our  shattered  dead  away 

in  foreign  graves, 
Exiled  forever  from  the  port  the  homesick 

sailor  craves! 

They  trusted  once  in  Spain, 
They're  trusting  her  again! 
And  with  the  holy  care  of  our  own  sacred 

skin! 

No,  no,  the  Stripes  and  Stars 
Must  wave  above  our  tars. 
Bring  them  home! 

On  a  thousand  hills  the  darling  dead  of  all 

our  battles  lie, 
In  nooks  of  peace,  with  flowers  and  flags, 

but  now  they  seem  to  cry 
From  out  their  bivouac: 
"Here  every  good  man  Jack 
Belongs.  Nowhere  but  here  —  with  us. 
So  bring  them  back." 
And  on  the  Cuban  gales, 
A  ghostly  rumor  wails, 

"Bring  us  home!" 

Poltroon,  the  people  that  neglects  to  guard 

the  bones,  the  dust, 

The  reverenced  relics  its  warriors  have  be 
queathed  in  trust! 

But  heroes,  too,  were  these 

Who  sentinell'd  the  seas 

And  gave  their  lives,  to  shelter  us  in  care 
less  ease. 

Shall  we  desert  them,  slain, 

And  proffer  them  to  Spain 


BATTLE  SONG 


613 


As  alien   mendicants,  —  these  martyrs  of 
our  Maine  ? 

No!  Bring  them  home! 

RUPERT  HUGHES. 


At  last,  the  investigation  was  ended,  and  showed 
that  the  Maine  had  been  blown  up  from  the  out 
side,  probably  by  a  submarine  mine,  exploded 
by  men  who  wore  the  uniform  of  Spain.  The 
report  reached  Congress  March  28,  1898,  and  on 
April  11  President  McKinley  asked  Congress  for 
authority  to  establish  an  independent  government 
in  Cuba. 

EL  EMPLAZADO 

EL  EMPLAZADO,  the  Summoned,  the  Doomed 

One, 
Spain   whom   the  nations  denounce  and 

abhor, 

Robe  thy  dismay  in  the  black  sanbenito. 
Come  to  the  frowning  tribunal  of  war. 

Curst  were  thy  minions,   their  roster  and 
scutcheon, 

Alvas,  Alfonsos,  Archarchons  of  hate; 
Pillared  on  bigotry,  pride,  and  extortion, 

Topples  to  ruin  thy  mansion  of  state. 

Violence,  Cruelty,  Intrigue,  and  Treason, 
These  the  false  courtiers  who  flattered  thy 
throne ; 

Empires,  thy  sisters,  forbode  thee  disaster, 
Even  thy  children  their  mother  disown. 

Suppliant  Cuba,  thy  daughter  forsaken, 
Famished  and  bleeding  and  buffeted  sore. 

Ghastly  from  gashes  and  stabs  of  thy  ran 
cor, 
Binds  up  her  wounds  at  an  alien  door. 

Courts  and  corregidors  erst  at  thy  bidding 
Banished  or  butchered  Moresco  and  Jew; 

Ghosts  from  all  Christendom,  shades  of  the 

Martyrs 
Flock  from  the  sepulchre  thee  to  pursue. 

Wrath  of  retributive  Justice  o'ertakes  thee! 

Brand  of  time's  malison  blisters  thy  brow: 
Armed  cabelleros  and  crowned  kings  of  Bour 
bon, 

AH  are  unable  to  succor  thee  now. 

El  Emplazado,  the  Summoned,  the  Doomed 

One! 
God's  Inquisition  condemns  tbee  to-day! 


Earth-shaking    cannon-bolts     thunder     thy 

sentence,  — 
Heaven  reechoes  the  auto-da-fe. 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE. 


On  April  19, 189S,  Congress  adopted  a  resolution 
declaring  that  Spanish  rule  in  Cuba  must  cease, 
recognizing  the  independence  of  the  Cubans,  and 
empowering  the  President  to  use  the  entire  land 
and  naval  forces  of  the  United  States  to  drive 
Spain  from  the  island.  It  was,  in  effect,  a  declara 
tion  of  war. 

BATTLE  SONG 

WHEN  the  vengeance  wakes,  when  the  battle 

breaks, 

And  the  ships  sweep  out  to  sea; 
When  the  foe  is  neared,  when  the  decks  are 

cleared, 

And  the  colors  floating  free; 
When  the  squadrons  meet,  when  it's  fleet  to 

fleet 

And  front  to  front  with  Spain, 
From  ship  to  ship,  from  lip  to  lip. 

Pass  on  the  quick  refrain, 
"Remember,  remember  the  Maine!" 

When    the   flag   shall    sign,    "Advance    in 

line; 

Train  ships  on  an  even  keel;" 
When  the  guns  shall  flash  and  the  shot  shall 

crash 

And  bound  on  the  ringing  steel; 
When  the  rattling  blasts  from  the  armored 

masts 

Are  hurling  their  deadliest  rain, 
Let  their  voices  loud,  through  the  blinding 

cloud. 

Cry  ever  the  fierce  refrain, 
"Remember,  remember  the  Maine!" 

God's  sky  and  sea  in  that  storm  shall  be 

Fate's  chaos  of  smoke  and  flame, 
But  across  that  hell  every  shot  shall  tell. 

Not  a  gun  can  miss  its  aim; 
Not   a   blow  shall   fail   on    the   crumbling 

mail, 

And  the  waves  that  engulf  the  slain 
Shall    sweep   the   decks   of   the   blackened 

wrecks, 

With  the  thundering,  dread  refrain, 
"Remember,  remember  the  Maine!" 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON. 


614 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


England  was  the  only  country  in  Europe  whose 
sympathies  were  openly  with  the  United  States. 
In  France,  Italy,  and  elsewhere,  the  hostility  to 
America  was  bitter  and  outspoken. 

GREETING  FROM  ENGLAND 

AMERICA  !  dear  brother  land ! 

While  yet  the  shotted  guns  are  mute, 

Accept  a  brotherly  salute, 
A  hearty  grip  of  England's  hand. 

To-morrow,  when  the  sulphurous  glow 
Of  war  shall  dim  the  stars  above, 
Be  sure  the  star  of  England's  love 

Is  over  you,  come  weal  or  woe. 

Go  forth  in  hope!  Go  forth  in  might! 
To  all  your  nobler  self  be  true, 
That  coming  times  may  see  in  you 

The  vanguard  of  the  hosts  of  light. 

Though  wrathful  justice  load  and  train 
Your  guns,  be  every  breach  they  make 
A  gateway  pierced  for  mercy's  sake 

That  peace  may  enter  in  and  reign. 

Then,  should  the  hosts  of  darkness  band 
Against  you,  lowering  thunderously, 
Flash  the  word  "  Brother"  o'er  the  sea, 

And  England  at  your  side  shall  stand, 

Exulting!  For,  though  dark  the  night 
And  sinister  with  scud  and  rack, 
The  hour  that  brings  us  back  to  back 

But  harbingers  the  larger  light. 
London  Chronicle,  April  22,  1898. 

Diplomatic  relations  between  Spain  and  the 
United  States  were  at  once  severed,  and  on  April 
25, 1898,  Congress  formally  declared  that  war  with 
the  Kingdom  of  Spain  had  existed  since  April  21. 
The  first  blow  was  to  be  struck  with  surprising 
suddenness. 

BATTLE  CRY 

[May  1.  1898] 

THE  loud  drums  are  rolling,  the  mad  trum 
pets  blow! 

To  battle !  the  war  is  begun  and  we  go 
To  humble  the  pride  of  an  arrogant  foe! 

The  ensign  and  standard  which  wave  for  the 

Crown 
Of  Castile  and  Aragon  —  trample  them  down  I 


Granada  and  Leon  and  haughty  Navarre 
Shall  lower  their  banner  to  Cuba's  lone  star  I 

Now  under  Old  Glory,  the  Blue  and  the  Gray 
United  march  shoulder  to  shoulder  away, 
To  meet  the  Hidalgos  in  furious  fray. 

With  musket  and  haversack  ready  are  we 
To  tramp  the  globe  over,  to  sweep  every  sea, 
From  isles  of  dead  Philip  to  Florida's  Key. 

We  think  of  the  Maine  and  our  hot  bosoms 

swell 
With  rage  of  love's  sorrow,  which  vengeance 

must  quell, 
And  then  we  are  ready  to  storm  gates  of  Hell. 

Our  flag  streams  aloft  by  the  tempest  un 
furled  ! 

We  strike  for  a  Continent;  —  nay,  for  the 
World ! 

Mene,  Tekel,  Upharsin !  the  thunder  is  hurled ! 

The  ensign  and  standard  which  wave  for  the 

Crown 

Of  Castile  and  Aragon  —  trample  them  down! 
Granada  and  Leon  and  haughty  Navarre 
Shall  lower  their  banner  to  Cuba's  lone  star! 
WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE. 


Thousands  of  miles  away,  across  the  Pacific, 
lay  another  island  dependency  of  Spain,  the 
Philippines.  The  Navy  Department,  with  sin 
gular  foresight,  had  been  gradually  increasing 
the  Asiatic  squadron,  commanded  by  Commodore 
George  Dewey,  and  that  officer  was  carefully 
preparing  for  the  work  he  saw  before  him.  The 
fleet  was  assembled  at  Hong  Kong,  and  on  April 
26,  1893,  came  a  cablegram  to  Dewey  stating  that 
war  had  commenced  and  ordering  him  to  proceed 
at  once  to  the  Philippines  and  capture  or  destroy 
the  Spanish  fleet  there.  At  two  o'clock  the  next 
afternoon,  the  American  fleet  started  on  its 
six-hundred-mile  journey.  It  reached  Manila  on 
the  night  of  April  30,  and  steamed  straight  into 
the  harbor. 

JUST  ONE  SIGNAL 

[May  1,  1898] 

THE  war-path  is  true  and  straight, 

It  knoweth  no  left  or  right; 
Why  ponder  and  wonder  and  vacillate  ? 

The  way  to  fight  is  to  fight. 

The  officer  of  the  deck 
Had  climbed  to  a  perch  aloft, 


DEWEY   AT   MANILA 


And  he  leaned  far  out  and  he  craned  his 
neck. 

And  his  tones  were  gentle  and  soft: 
"I  see,"  he  whispered,  "off  there  to  port. 

Through  the  night  shade's  lesser  black, 
The  darker  blur  of  the  outer  fort, 

Preparing  for  the  attack." 
They  signalled  it  so,  and  sharp  and  short 

The  answer  was  signalled  back: 
"Keep  on." 

Again  from  the  upper  air 

Came  the  quiet  voice  of  the  guide: 
"The  admiral's  flagship's  over  there. 

Two  miles  on  the  starboard  side. 
It's  a  long,  long  way  for  the  best  of  eyes, 

But  I  know  her  by  moon  or  sun, 
I  know  by  her  lines  and  I  know  her  size  — 

And  there  goes  her  warning  gun." 
"That  boat  will  make  a  most  excellent  prize," 

Said  the  admiral,  "when  we've  won. 
Keep  on." 

The  whispering  came  again : 

"I  think  by  the  hints  and  signs 
Appearing  ahead  of  us  now  and  then 

That  we're  getting  among  their  mines. 
Ten  fathom  in  front,  as  the  search-lights 
show, 

I  fancy  that  I  can  detect 
The  line  of  their  outermost  works  —  Ah,  no! 

It  is  nearer  than  I'd  suspect." 
The  message  was  sent  to  the  admiral  so, 

And  he  answered  to  this  effect: 
"Keep  on." 

The  haze  of  the  dawning  day 

Slid  into  the  shades  of  night. 
And  he  called:  "Off  there  in  the  upper  bay. 

They're  lining  their  ships  for  a  fight. 
I  think  they  are  training  on  us  — "   No  more 

He  said,  for  the  dawn  was  lit 
By  the  blaze  of  a  gun  from  the  neighboring 

shore. 

And  he  fell  to  the  deck,  hard  hit. 
They  signalled:  "The  first  man  struck."   As 

before 

The  admiral  answered  it: 
"Keep  on." 

The  sun  came  over  the  hills 

As  wishing  a  world-wide  weal. 
And  the  guns  were  fired  with  the  aim  that 
kills, 

And  steel  pierced  the  lieart  of  steel. 


And  the  line  of  shore  was  the  fringe  of  hell. 
And  the  centre  of  hell  was  the  sea, 

And  the  woe  was  the  woe  no  tongue  may  tell, 
And  no  eye  view  tearlessly, 

And  over  that  crater  of  bomb  and  shell 
The  signal  continued  to  be: 
"Keep  on." 

O  Lawrence,  whose  passing  cry 

Grows  ever  the  more  sublime. 
And  thou,  O  Nile  King,  whose  words  shall  die 

When  we  learn  of  the  death  of  time, 
We  send  you  the  third  of  a  glorious  three; 

We  send  you  a  battle  shout 
That  echoes  up  from  the  blood-thick  sea 

And  up  from  the  wreck  and  rout 
And  down  from  the  staff  on  the  high  cross- 
tree 

Where  the  flag  is  signalling  out: 
"Keep  on." 

The  war-path  is  true  and  straight, 

It  knoweth  no  left  or  right; 
Mars  loves  not  the  man  who  would  devi 
ate,  — 

For  the  way  to  fight  is  to  fight. 

A  shot  from  Corregidor  and  another  fro-n  El 
Fraile  told  that  the  fleet  was  discovered,  but  the 
ships  glided  quietly  on.  and  at  dawn  the  Spanish 
fleet  was  seen  anchored  under  the  batteries  of 
Cavite".  Dewey  steamed  straight  for  them;  the 
Spanish  ships  were  sunk,  one  after  another,  by 
the  deadly  fire  of  the  American  gunners,  and  by 
noon  the  Spanish  fleet  had  been  destroyed,  the 
shore  batteries  silenced,  and  a  white  flag  floated 
over  the  citadel  of  Cavite".  Dewey  had  not  lost 
a  man,  and  had  won  the  greatest  naval  battle 
since  Trafalgar. 

DEWEY  AT  MANILA 

[May  1,  1898) 

'T  WAS  the  very  verge  of  May 
When  the  bold  Olympia  led 

Into  Bocagrande  Bay 

Dewey 's  squadron,  dark  and  dread,  — 

Creeping  past  Corregidor, 

Guardian  of  Manila's  shore. 

Do  they  sleep  who  wait  the  fray? 

Is  the  moon  so  dazzling  bright 
That  our  cruisers'  battle-gray 

Melts  into  the  misty  light?  .  .  . 
Ah!  the  red  flash  and  t'le  roar! 
Wakes  at  last  Corregidor! 


6i6 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


All  too  late  their  screaming  shell 
Tears  the  silence  with  its  track; 

This  is  but  the  gate  of  hell, 
We've  no  leisure  to  turn  back. 

Answer,  Concord !  —  then  once  more 

Slumber  on,  Corregidor! 

And  as,  like  a  slowing  tide. 
Onward  still  the  vessels  creep, 

Dewey,  watching,  falcon-eyed. 

Orders,  —  "  Let  the  gunners  sleep ; 

For  we  meet  a  foe  at  four 

Fiercer  than  Corregidor." 

Well  they  slept,  for  well  they  knew 
What  the  morrow  taught  us  all,  — 

He  was  wise  (as  well  as  true) 
Thus  upon  the  foe  to  fall. 

Long  shall  Spain  the  day  deplore 

Dewey  ran  Corregidor. 

May  is  dancing  into  light 

As  the  Spanish  Admiral 
From  a  dream  of  phantom  fight 

Wakens  at  his  sentry's  call. 
Shall  he  leave  Cavite's  lee. 
Hunt  the  Yankee  fleet  at  sea? 

O  Montojo,  to  thy  deck. 

That  to-day  shall  float  its  last! 

Quick!   To  quarters!   Yonder  speck 
Grows  a  hull  of  portent  vast. 

Hither,  toward  Cavite's  lee 

Comes  the  Yankee  hunting  thee! 

Not  for  fear  of  hidden  mine 
Halts  our  doughty  Commodore. 

He,  of  old  heroic  line. 

Follows  Farragut  once  more, 

Hazards  all  on  victory. 

Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

If  he  loses,  all  is  gone; 

He  will  win  because  he  must. 
And  the  shafts  of  yonder  dawn 

Are  not  quicker  than  his  thrust. 
Soon,  Montojo,  he  shall  be 
With  thee  in  Cavite's  lee. 

Now,  Manila,  to  the  fray! 

Show  the  hated  Yankee  host 
This  is  not  a  holiday,  — 

Spanish  blood  is  more  than  boast. 


Fleet  and  mine  and  battery, 
Crush  him  in  Cavite's  lee! 

Lo,  hell's  geysers  at  our  fore 

Pierce  the  plotted  path  —  in  vain, 

Nerving  every  man  the  more 
With  the  memory  of  the  Maine! 

Now  at  last  our  guns  are  free 

Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

"Gridley,"  says  the  Commodore, 

"You  may  fire  when  ready."  Then 

Long  and  loud,  like  lions'  roar 
When  a  rival  dares  the  den, 

Breaks  the  awful  cannonry 

Full  across  Cavite's  lee. 

Who  shall  tell  the  daring  tale 
Of  our  Thunderbolt's  attack, 

Finding,  when  the  chart  should  fail, 
By  the  lead  his  dubious  track, 

Five  ships  following  faithfully 

Five  times  o'er  Cavite's  lee; 

Of  our  gunners'  deadly  aim ; 

Of  the  gallant  foe  and  brave 
Who,  unconquered,  faced  with  flame, 

Seek  the  mercy  of  the  wave,  — 
Choosing  honor  in  the  sea 
Underneath  Cavite's  lee? 

Let  the  meed  the  victors  gain 
Be  the  measure  of  their  task. 

Less  of  flinching,  stouter  strain, 
Fiercer  combat  —  who  could  ask? 

And  "surrender,"  —  't  was  a  word 

That  Cavite  ne'er  had  heard. 

Noon,  —  the  woful  work  is  done! 

Not  a  Spanish  ship  remains; 
But,  of  their  eleven,  none 

Ever  was  so  truly  Spain's! 
Which  is  prouder,  they  or  we, 
Thinking  of  Cavite's  lee  ? 


But  remember,  when  we've  ceased 
Giving  praise  and  reckoning  odds, 

Man  shares  courage  with  the  beast, 
Wisdom  cometh  from  the  gods. 

Who  would  win,  on  land  or  wave, 

Must  be  wise  as  well  as  brave. 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


DEWEY  AND   HIS   MEN 


617 


DEWEY  AND  HIS  MEN 

[May  1,  1898J 

GLISTERING  high  in  the  midnight  sky  the 

starry  rockets  soar 
To  crown  the  height  so  soon  to  be  uncrowned, 

Corregidor ; 
And  moaning  into  the  middle  night  resounds 

the  answering  shock 
From  Fraile's  island  battery  within  the  living 

rock; 
Like  Farragut  before  him,  so  Dewey  down  the 

bay, 
Past  fort  and  mine,  in  single  line,  holds  on 

toward  Cavite. 

When  the  earth  was  new  a  raven  flew  o'er  the 

sea  on  a  perilous  quest, 
By  his  broad  black  pinions  buoyed  up  as  he 

sought  him  a  spot  to  rest; 
So  to-day  from   British   China  sweeps  our 

Commodore  'mid  the  cheers 
Of  England's  dauntless  ships  of  steel,  and  into 

the  night  he  steers, 
With  never  a  home  but  the  furrowy  foam  and 

never  a  place  for  ease 
Save  the  place  he'll  win  by  the  dint  and  din  of 

his  long,  lean  batteries. 

A  misty  dawn  on  the  May-day  shone,  yet  the 
enemy  sees  afar 

On  our  ships-of-war  great  flags  flung  out  as 
bright  as  the  morning  star; 

Then  the  cannon  of  Spain  crash  over  the 
main  and  their  splendor  flecks  the  ports 

As  the  crackling  thunder  rolls  along  the  frown 
ing  fleet  and  forts; 

But  the  Olympia  in  her  majesty  leads  up  the 
broadening  bay 

And  behind  her  come  gaunt  ships  and  dumb 
toward  crested  Cavite. 

All  pearl  and  rose  the  dawn  light  glows,  and 

ruddy  and  gray  the  gloom 
Of  battle  over  their  squadron  sinks  as  we 

sweep  like  a  vast  simoom; 
When  our  broadsides  flash  and  ring  at  last  — 

in  a  hoarsening,  staggering  crush 
On  the  arsenal  and  fleet  in  wrath  our  lurid 

lightnings  rush. 
Malate  knows  us,  Cavite,  Caftacoa  crazed 

with  hate; 
But   Corregidor   shall   speak   no   more,    El 

Fraile  fears  his  fate. 


Montojo  fights  as  fought  the  knights  by  the 

Cid  Campeador; 
He  leaves  his  flagship  all  afire,  the  Cuba  takes 

him  o'er 
The  Don  Antonio  roars  and  fumes,  the  Austria 

lights  and  lifts; 
From   Sangley  to  Manila   Mole   the  battle 

vapor  drifts; 
But  the  Queen  Christine  in  one  great  blast 

dies  as  becomes  her  name, 
Her  funeral  shroud  a  pillar  of  cloud  all  fila- 

greed  with  flame. 

From  peak  to  peak  our  quick  flags  speak,  the 

rattling  chorus  ends; 
And  cheer  on  cheer  rolls  over  the  sea  at  the 

word  the  signal  sends. 
From  Commodore  to  powder-boy,  from  bridge 

to  stoker's  den, 
No  battle  rips  have  found   our  ships,   nor 

wounds  nor  death  our  men. 
We  cheer  and  rest,  we  rest  and  cheer;  and 

ever  above  the  tides 
The  flag  that  knows  no  conquering  foes  in 

newer  glory  rides. 

When  the  reek  of  war  is  rolled  afar  by  the 
breezes  down  the  bay 

We  turn  our  deadly  guns  again  on  the  walls 
of  Cavite. 

The  Spaniard  dreamed  of  victory  —  his  final 
hope  is  flown 

As  winged  destruction  up  and  down  our  bat 
teries  have  strown  — 

In  horrid  havoc,  red  and  black,  the  storm 
throbs  on  amain 

Till  in  the  glare  of  carnage  there  fade  all  the 
flags  of  Spain. 

In  old  Madrid  sad  eyes  are  hid  for  an  empire 

sore  bestead : 
Mai.ila's  mad  with  misery,  Havana  sick  with 

dread, 
As  the  great  bells  toll  each  gallant  soul  Castile 

shall  see  no  more, 
Toll  Fraile's  rock  a  thing  for  sport,  toll  lost 

Corregidor  — 
Spain's  fortresses  are  fluttering  with  banners 

blanched  and  pale; 
Her  admiralty  in  agony  lies  shattered,  steam 

and  sail. 

And  the  home  we  sought  was  cheaply  bought, 
for  no  mother,  wife,  nor  maid 

From  Maine  to  Loma  Point  bewails  the  lad 
for  whom  she  prayed; 


6i8 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Now   everywhere,  from  Florida  to  the  blue 

Vancouver  Straits, 
The  flag  we've  flown  abroad  is  thrown,  and 

a  word  of  cheer  awaits. 
The  ships  and  men  that  never  failed  the  nation 

from  her  birth 
Have  done  again  all  ships  and  men  may  do 

upon  this  earth. 

Glistering  high  in  the  noontide  sky  the  starry 

banners  soar 
To  crown  anew  the  height  so  soon  uncrowned, 

Corregidor. 
They  bring  the  promise  of  the  free  to  Philip's 

jewelled  isles, 
And  hearts  oppressed  thrill  hard  with  hope 

whene'er  that  promise  smiles; 
For  the  spirit  of  Old  Ironsides  broods  o'er 

that  tropic  day 
And  the  wildfire  lights  as  Dewey  fights  on  the 

broad  Manila  Bay. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


"OFF  MANILLY" 

AYE,  lads,  aye,  we  fought  'em, 
And  we  sent  'em  to  the  bottom. 

And    you'll   say   that  I'm   a-talkin'  like  a 

silly; 

I  hear  your  cheers  and  jokes, 
But,  lads,  them's  human  folks 

What  is  soakin'  in  the  water  off  Manilly. 

Aye,  lads,  and  when  we  shot 

It's  just  as  like  as  not 
We  hit  some  mother's  heart  in  old  Granady. 

She  did  n't  sink  no  Maine, 

'Way  over  there  in  Spain, 
But  she  won't  never  see  her  laddy's  body. 

I  kin  see  a  black-eyed  gal, 

Somethin'  like  my  little  Sal, 
What  is  cryin'  out  her  eyes  in  old  Sevilly; 

There's  a  widow  in  Madrid 

With  a  pore  little  kid, 
And  his  daddy  has  went  down  off  Manilly. 

Aye,  lads,  aye,  we  fought  'em, 
And  we  sent  'em  to  the  bottom. 

And  1  hopes  you  won't  be  thinkin'  I'm  a 

booby, 

But  that  little  black-eyed  gal, 
What  reminds  me  so  of  Sal, 

She  did  n't  never  do  no  harm  to  Cuby. 


And  if  instead  of  Sanchy, 
It  had  been  "the  hated  Yankee," 
Which  you  know,  my  lads,  is  me  and  Jack, 

and  Billy, 

You  know  who  would  be  cryin' 
For  us  fellers,  what  was  dyin' 
And  a-soakin'  in  the  water  off  Manilly. 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 

MANILA  BAY 

FROM  keel  to  fighting  top,  I  love 

Our  Asiatic  fleet, 
I  love  our  officers  and  crews 

Who'd  rather  fight  than  eat. 
I  love  the  breakfast  ordered  up 

When  enemies  ran  short, 
But  most  I  love  our  chaplain 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

Now,  a  naval  chaplain  cannot  charge 

As  chaplains  can  on  land, 
With  his  Bible  in  his  pocket, 

His  revolver  in  his  hand, 
He  must  wait  and  help  the  wounded, 

No  danger  must  he  court; 
So  our  chaplain  helped  the  wounded 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port.      ; . 

Beneath  his  red  and  yellow, 

At  bay  the  Spaniard  stood 
Till  the  yellow  rose  in  fire 

And  the  crimson  sank  in  blood. 
And  till  the  last  fouled  rifle 

Sped  its  impotent  retort, 
Our  chaplain  watched  the  Spaniard 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

Then  here's  our  admiral  on  the  bridge 

Above  the  bursting  shell; 
And  here's  our  sailors  who  went  in 

For  victory  or  hell, 
And  here's  the  ships  and  here's  the  guns, 

That  silenced  fleet  and  fort; 
But  don't  forget  our  chaplain 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

ARTHUR  HALE. 
May  1.  189S. 

A  BALLAD  OF  MANILA  BAY 

YOUR  threats  how  vain,  Corregidor; 
Your  rampired  batteries,  feared  no  more; 
Your  frowning  guard  at  Manila  gate.  — 
When  our  Captain  went  before! 


THE   BATTLE  OF   MANILA 


619 


Lights  out.   Into  the  unknown  gloom 
From  the  windy,  glimmering,  wide  sea-room 
Challenging  fate  in  that  dark  strait 
We  dared  the  hidden  doom. 

But  the  death  in  the  deep  awoke  not  then; 
Mine  and  torpedo  they  spoke  not  then ; 
From  the  heights  that  loomed  on  our  passing 

line 
The  thunders  broke  not  then. 

Safe  through  the  perilous  dark  we  sped, 
Quiet  each  ship  as  the  quiet  dead. 
Till  the  guns  of  El  Fraile  roared  —  too  late, 
And  the  steel  prows  forged  ahead. 

Mute  each  ship  as  the  mute-mouth  grave, 
A  ghost  leviathan  cleaving  the  wave; 
But  deep  in  its  heart  the  great  fires  throb. 
The  travailing  engines  rave. 

The  ponderous  pistons  urge  like  fate, 
The  red-throat  furnaces  roar  elate. 
And  the  sweating  stokers  stagger  and  swoon 
In  a  heat  more  fierce  than  hate. 

So  through  the  dark  we  stole  our  way 
Past  the  grim  warders  and  into  the  bay, 
Past  Kalibuyo,  and  past  Salinas,  — 
And  came  at  the  break  of  day 

Where  strong  Cavite  stood  to  oppose,  — 
Where,  from  a  sheen  of  silver  and  rose, 
A  thronging  of  masts,  a  soaring  of  towers, 
The  beautiful  city  arose. 

How  fine  and  fair!   But  the  shining  air 
With  a  thousand  shattered  thunders  there 
Flapped  and  reeled.    For  the  fighting  foe  — 
We  had  caught  him  in  his  lair. 

Surprised,  unready,  his  proud  ships  lay 
Idly  at  anchor  in  Bakor  Bay:  — 
Unready,  surprised,  but  proudly  bold. 

Which  was  ever  the  Spaniard's  way. 

Then  soon  on  his  pride  the  dread  doom  fell, 
Red  doom,  —  for  the  ruin  of  shot  and  shell 
Lit  every  vomiting,  bursting  hulk 
With  a  crimson  reek  of  hell. 

But  to  the  bra'-e  though  beaten,  hail ! 
All  hail  to  them  that  dare  and  fail! 
To  the  dauntless  boat  that  charged  our  fleet 
And  sank  in  the  iron  hail! 


Manila  Bay!  Manila  Bay! 
How  proud  the  song  on  our  lips  to-day! 
A  brave  old  song  of  the  true  and  strong, 
And  the  will  that  has  its  way; 

Of  the  blood  that  told  in  the  days  of  Drake 
When  the  fight  was  good  for  the  fighting's  sake! 
For  the  blood  that  fathered  Farragut 

Is  the  blood  that  fathered  Blake; 

And  the  pride  of  the  blood  will  not  be  undone 
While  war 's  in  the  world  and  a  fight  to  be  won. 
For  the  master  now,  as  the  master  of  old, 
Is  "the  man  behind  the  gun." 

The  dominant  blood  that  daunts  the  foe, 
That  laughs  at  odds,  and  leaps  to  the  blow,  — •• 
It  is  Dewey's  glory  to-day,  as  Nelson's 

A  hundred  years  ago! 
CHARLES  GEOEGE  DOUGLAS  ROBERTS. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MANILA 

A   FRAGMENT 
[May  1,  1898] 

BY  Cavite  on  the  bay 

'Twas  the  Spanish  squadron  lay; 

And  the  red  dawn  was  creeping 

O'er  the  city  that  lay  sleeping 

To  the  east,  like  a  bride,  in  the  May. 

There  was  peace  at  Manila, 

In  the  May  morn  at  Manila,  — 

When  ho,  the  Spanish  admiral 

Awoke  to  find  our  line 

Had  passed  by  gray  Corregidor, 

Had  laughed  at  shoal  and  mine, 

And  flung  to  the  sky  its  banners 

With  "Remember"  for  the  sign! 

With  the  ships  of  Spain  before 

In  the  shelter  of  the  shore. 

And  the  forts  on  the  right. 

They  drew  forward  to  the  fight. 

And  the  first  was  the  gallant  Commodore; 

In  the  bay  of  Manila, 

In  the  doomed  bay  of  Manila  — 

With  succor  half  the  world  away, 

No  port  beneath  that  sky. 

With  nothing  but  their  ships  and  guns 

And  Yankee  pluck  to  try, 

They  had  left  retreat  behind  them. 

They  had  come  to  win  or  die! 


620 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


For  we  spoke  at  Manila, 

We  said  it  at  Manila, 

Oh  be  ye  brave,  or  be  ye  strong, 

Ye  build  your  ships  in  vain; 

The  children  of  the  sea  queen's  brood 

Will  not  give  up  the  main; 

We  hold  the  sea  against  the  world 

As  we  held  it  against  Spain. 

Be  warned  by  Manila, 

Take  warning  by  Manila, 

Ye  may  trade  by  land,  ye  may  fight  by  land, 

Ye  may  hold  the  land  in  f£e; 

But  not  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships 

To  battle  with  the  free; 

For  England  and  America 

Will  keep  and  hold  the  sea ! 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 

This  remarkable  victory  amazed  the  world, 
and  set  America  wild  with  excitement  and  en 
thusiasm.  Dewey  became  a  popular  hero,  and 
Congress  made  haste  to  revive  the  grade  of  ad 
miral  and  to  confer  it  upon  him. 

DEWEY  IN  MANILA  BAY 

HE  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  did  n't 

lose  a  man 
(Raise  your  heads  and  cheer  him  as  he 

goes!)  — 
He  licked  the  sneaky  Spaniard  till  the  fellow 

cut  and  ran. 
For  fighting 's  part  of  what  a  Yankee  knows. 

He  fought  'em  and  he  licked  'em,  without  any 

fuss  or  flam 

(It  was  only  his  profession  for  to  win), 
He  sank  their  boats    beneath  'em,   and  he 

spared  'em  as  they  swam, 
And  then  he  sent  his  ambulances  in. 

He  had  no  word  to  cheer  him  and  had  no 

bands  to  play, 

He  had  no  crowds  to  make  his  duty  brave; 
But  he  risked  the  deep  torpedoes  at  the  break 
ing  of  the  day. 
For  he  knew  he  had  our  self-respect  to  save. 

He  flew  the  angry  signal  crying  justice  for  the 

Maine, 

He  flew  it  from  his  flagship  as  he  fought. 
He  drove  the  tardy  vengeance  in  the  very  teeth 

of  Spain, 

And  he  did  it  just  because  he  thought  he 
ought. 


He  busted  up  their  batteries  and  sank  eleven 

ships 

(He  knew  what  he  was  doing,  every  bit); 
He  set  the  Maxims  going  like  a  hundred  crack 
ing  whips. 
And  every  shot  that  crackled  was  a  hit. 

He  broke  'em  and  he  drove  'em,  and  he  did  n't 

care  at  all, 

He  only  liked  to  do  as  he  was  bid ; 
He  crumpled  up  their  squadron  and  their  bat 
teries  and  all,  — 
He  knew  he  had  to  lick  'em  and  he  did. 

And  when  the  thing  was  finished  and  they 

flew  the  frightened  flag, 
He  slung  his  guns  and  sent  his  foot  ashore, 
And  he  gathered  in  their  wounded,  and  he 

quite  forgot  to  brag, 
For  he  thought  he  did  his  duty,  nothing  more. 

Oh,  he  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  did  n't 

lose  a  man 
(Raise  your  heads  and   cheer  him  as  he 

goes !)  — 
He  licked  the  sneaky  Spaniard  till  the  fellow 

cut  and  ran. 
For  fighting 's  part  of  what  a  Yankee  knows ! 

R.  V.   RlSLEY. 

Another  fleet,  and  a  much  more  powerful  one 
than  Dewey's,  had  been  collected  at  Key  West, 
under  command  of  Admiral  Sampson,  ready  to 
proceed  to  Cuba,  and  on  April  21  orders  came 
for  it  to  sail.  On  the  morning  of  April  22,  it  put 
to  sea  and  steamed  slowly  off  toward  Havana. 

"MENE,  MENE,  TEKEL,  UPHARSIN" 

[April  22,  1898] 

BEHOLD,  we  have  gathered  together  our  battle 
ships,  near  and  afar; 

Their  decks  they  are  cleared  for  action,  their 
guns  they  are  primed  for  war. 

From  the  East  to  the  West  there  is  hurry;  in 
the  North  and  the  South  a  peal 

Of  hammers  in  fort  and  ship-yard,  and  the 
clamor  and  clang  of  steel ; 

And  the  rush  and  roar  of  engines,  and  clank 
ing  of  derrick  and  crane,  — 

Thou  art  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found 
wanting,  the  balance  of  God,  O  Spain! 

Behold,  I  have  stood  on  the  mountains,  and 
this  was  writ  in  the  sky: 

"She  is  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found  want 
ing,  the  balance  God  holds  on  high!" 


THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  SEAS 


621 


The  balance  He  once  weighed  Babylon,  the 
Mother  of  Harlots,  in. 

One  scale  holds  thy  pride  and  power  and  em 
pire,  begotten  of  sin, 

Heavy  with  woe  and  torture,  the  crimes  of  a 
thousand  years, 

Mortared  and  welded  together  with  6re  and 
blood  and  tears; 

In  the  other,  for  justice  and  mercy,  a  blade 
with  never  a  stain, 

Is  kid  the  Sword  of  Liberty,  and  the  balance 
dips,  O  Spain! 

Summon  thy  vessels  together!  great  is  thy 

need  for  these! 
Cristobal   Colon,  Vizcaya,  Oquendo,   Marie 

Therese. 
Let  them  be  strong  and  many,  for  a  vision 

I  had  by  night, 
That  the  ancient  wrongs  thou  hast  done  the 

world  came  howling  to  the  fight; 
From  the  New  World  shores  they  gathered. 

Inca  and  Aztec,  slain, 
To  the  Cuban  shot  but  yesterday,  and  our 

own  dead  seamen,  Spain ! 

Summon  thy  ships  together,  gather  a  mighty 

fleet! 
For  a  strong  young  nation  is  arming  that  never 

hath  known  defeat. 
Summon   thy  ships  together,   there  on   thy 

blood-stained  sands! 
For  a  shadowy  army  gathers  with  manacled 

feet  and  hands, 
A  shadowy  host  of  sorrows  and  of  shames,  too 

black  to  tell, 
That  reach  with  their  horrible  wounds  for 

thee  to  drag  thee  down  to  hell; 
Myriad  phantoms  and  spectres,  thou  warrest 

against  in  vain ! 
Thou  art  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found 

wanting,  the  balance  of  God,  O  Spain! 
MADISON  CAWEIN. 


A  blockade  was  proclaimed  of  Havana  and  a 
number  of  other  ports.  But  no  attempt  was  made 
to  enter  the  harbor,  which  was  crammed  with 
mines  and  defended  by  strong  fortifications. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MAINE 

IN  battle-line  of  sombre  gray 

Our  ships-of-war  advance, 
As  Red  Cross  Knights  in  holy  fray 

Charged  with  avenging  lance. 


And  terrible  shall  be  thy  plight, 

O  fleet  of  cruel  Spain! 
Forever  in  our  van  doth  fight 

The  spirit  of  the  Maine ! 

As  when  beside  Regillus  Lake 

The  Great  Twin  Brethren  came 
A  righteous  fight  for  Rome  to  make 

Against  the  Deed  of  Shame  — 
So  now  a  ghostly  ship  shall  doom 

The  fleet  of  treacherous  Spain : 
Before  her  guilty  soul  doth  loom 

The  Spirit  of  the  Maine! 

A  wraith  arrayed  in  peaceful  white, 

As  when  asleep  she  lay 
Above  the  traitorous  mine  that  night 

Within  Havana  Bay, 
She  glides  before  the  avenging  fleet, 

A  sign  of  woe  to  Spain, 
Brave  though  her  sons,  how  shall  they  meet 

The  Spirit  of  the  Maine! 

TUDOR  JENKS. 

Spain  also  had  a  fleet,  and  a  strong  one,  or, 
the  ocean.  It  had  been  gathered  together  at  thw 
Cape  Verde  Islands,  and  on  April  29,  1898,  it  put 
to  sea,  and  steamed  westward  into  the  Atlantic, 
for  a  destination  which  could  only  be  conjectured. 

THE  DRAGON  OF  THE  SEAS1 

THEY  say  the  Spanish  ships  are  out 

To  seize  the  Spanish  main; 
Reach  down  the  volume,  boy,  and  read 

The  story  o'er  again. 

How  when  the  Spaniard  had  the  might, 
He  drenched  the  earth,  like  rain. 

With  human  blood,  and  made  it  death 
To  sail  the  Spanish  main. 

With  torch  and  steel,  and  stake  and  rack, 

He  trampled  out  all  truce, 
Until  Queen  Bess  her  leashes  slipt, 

And  turned  her  sea-dogs  loose. 

God !  how  they  sprang!  And  how  they  tore' 
The  Grenvilles,  Hawkins,  Drake! 

Remember,  boy,  they  were  your  sires! 
They  made  the  Spaniard  quake. 

They  sprang,  like  lions,  for  their  prey, 
Straight  for  the  throat,  amain ! 

i  From  "The  Coast  of  Bohemia  ";  copyright, 
1888,  1906,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


622 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


By  twos,  by  scores,  where'er  they  caught 
They  fought  the  ships  of  Spain. 

When  Spain,  in  dark  Ulloa's  bay. 

Broke  doubly-plighted  faith, 
Bold  Hawkins  fought  his  way  through  fire 

For  great  Elizabeth. 

A  bitter  malt  Spain  brewed  that  day  — 

She  drained  it  to  the  lees; 
Her  faithless  guns  that  morn  awoke 

The  Dragon  of  the  Seas. 

From  sea  to  sea  he  ravaged  far, 
A  scourge  with  flaming  breath  — 

Where'er  the  Spaniard  sailed  his  ships 
Sailed  Francis  Drake  and  Death. 

No  port  was  safe  against  his  ire, 

Secure  no  furthest  shore; 
The  fairest  day  oft  sank  in  fire 

Before  the  Dragon's  roar. 

He  made  th'  Atlantic  surges  red 

Round  every  Spanish  keel; 
Piled  Spanish  decks  with  Spanish  dead, 

The  noblest  of  Castile. 

From  Del  Fuego's  beetling  coast 

To  sleety  Hebrides, 
He  hounded  down  the  Spanish  host, 

And  swept  the  flaming  seas. 

He  fought  till  on  Spain's  inmost  lakes 

'Mid  orange  bowers  set, 
La  Mancha's  daughters  feared  to  sail 

Lest  they  the  Dragon  met. 

King  Philip,  of  his  raven  reft, 

As  forfeit  claimed  his  head. 
The  great  Queen  laughed  his  wrath  to  scorn, 

And  knighted  Drake  instead, 

And  gave  him  ships  and  sent  him  forth 

To  clear  the  Spanish  main 
For  England  and  for  England's  brood, 

And  sink  the  fleets  of  Spain. 

And  well  he  wrought  his  mighty  work, 

Till  on  that  fatal  day, 
He  met  his  only  conqueror, 

In  Nombre  Dios  Bay. 

There,  in  his  shotted  hammock  swung, 
Amid  the  surges'  sweep. 


He  waits  the  lookouts'  signal 
Across  the  quiet  deep. 

And  dreams  of  dark  Ulloa's  bay 

And  Spanish  treachery; 
And  how  he  tracked  Magellan  far 

Across  the  unknown  sea. 

But  if  Spain  fires  a  single  shot 

Upon  the  Spanish  main, 
She'll  come  to  deem  the  Dragon  dead 

Has  waked  to  life  again. 

THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE. 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE  FLEET 

Two  fleets  have  sailed  from  Spain.  The  one 
would  seek 

What  lands  uncharted  ocean  might  conceal. 
Despised,  condemned,  and  pitifully  weak, 

It  found  a  world  for  Leon  and  Castile. 

The  other,  mighty,  arrogant,  and  vain, 
Sought  to  subdue  a  people  who  were  free. 
Ask  of  the  storm-gods  where  its  galleons 
be,— 

Whelmed  'neath  the  billows  of  the  northern 


A  third  is  threatened .  On  the  westward  track, 
Once  gloriously  traced,  its  vessels  speed. 
With  gold  and  crimson  battle-flags  un 
furled. 

On  Colon's  course,  but  to  Sidonia's  wrack, 
Sure  fated,  if  so  need  shall  come  to  need, 
For  Sons  of  Drake  are  lords  of  Colon's 
world. 


vyu    iviay    1 1   a.   j-iai  i  y    iuwcu   111  aiiv- 

at  Cienfuegos,  under  a  heavy  fire 


"CUT  THE  CABLES" 

AN   INCIDENT  OF   CIENFUEGOS 
[May  11,  1898] 

"Cur  the  cables!"  the  order  read. 

And  the  men  were  there;  there  was  no  de 
lay. 
The  ships  hove  to  in  Cienfuegos  Bay,  — 

The  Windom,  Nashville,  Marblehead,  — 


CUT   THE   CABLES 


623 


Beautiful,  grim,  and  alert  were  they, 

It  was  midway,  past  in  the  morning  gray. 

"Cut  the  cables!"  the  order  said  — 
Over  the  clouds  of  the  dashing  spray. 
The  guns  were  trained  and  ready  for  play; 

Picked  from  the  Nashville,  Winslow  led, — 
Grim  death  waits  ashore,  they  say; 
"Lower  the  boats.  Godspeed,  give  way." 
Did  "our  untried  navy  lads"  obey? 

Away  to  their  perilous  work  they  sped. 

Now,  steady  the  keel,  keep  stroke  the  oar! 

They  must  go  in  close,  they  must  find  the 

wires; 
Grim  death  is  alert  on  that  watching  shore, 

That  deadly  shore  of  the  "Hundred  Fires." 
In  the  lighthouse  tower,  —  along  the  ledge,  — 

In  the  blockhouse,  waiting,  —  the  guns  are 

there ; 
On  the  lowland,  too,  in  the  tall,  dry  sedge; 

They  are  holding  the  word  till  the  boats 

draw  near. 
One  hundred  feet  from  the  water's  edge, 

Dazzling  clear  is  the  sunlit  air; 
Quick,  my  men,  —  the  moments  are  dear! 

Two  hundred  feet  from  the  rifle-pit, 
And  our  "untried"  lads  still  show  no  fear  — 

When  they  open  now  they  're  sure  to  hit; 
No  question,  even  by  sign,  they  ask, 
In  silence  they  bend  to  their  dangerous  task. 

Quick   now !  —  the  shot  from   a   smokeless 

gun 

Cuts  close  and  spatters  the  glistening  brine; 
Now  follows  the  roar  of  the  battle  begun, 
But  the  boys  were  bent  in  the  blazing  sun 

Like  peaceful  fishermen,  "wetting  a  line." 

They  searched  the  sea  while  a  shrieking  blast 

Swept  shoreward,   swift  as  the   lightning 

flies,  — 

While  the  fan-like  storm  of  the  shells  went  past 
Like    a  death-wing   cleaving    the    hissing 

skies. 
Like  a  sheltering  wing,  —  for  the  hurricane 

came 
From  our  own  good  guns,  and  the  foe  might 

tell 
What  wreck  was  wrought  by  their  deadly 

aim; 
For  the  foe  went  down  where  the  hurricane 

fell. 
It  shattered  the  blockhouse,  levelled  the  tower, 

It  ripped  the  face  of  the  smoking  hill, 
It  beat  the  battle  back,  hour  by  hour, 

And  then,  for  a  little,  our  guns  were  still. 


For  a  little,  but  that  was  the  fatal  breath,  — 
That  moment's  lull  in  the  friendly  crash,  — 
For  the  long  pit  blazed  with  a  vicious  flash. 

And  eight  fell,  —  two  of  them  done  to  death. 

Once  more  the  screen  of  the  screaming  shot 
With  its  driving  canopy  covered  the  men, 
While  they  dragged,  and  grappled,  and,  fal 
tering  not. 
Still  dragged,  and  searched,  and  grappled 

again. 
And  they  stayed  right  there  till  the  work  was 

done, 

The  cables  were  found  and  severed,  each  one, 
With  an  eighty-foot  gap,  and  the  "piece" 

hauled  in, 

And  stowed  in  place,  —  then,  under  the  din 
Of  that  deafening  storm,  that  had  swept  the 

air 

For  three  long  hours,  they  turned  from  shore 
("Steady  the  keel"  there;  "stroke"  the  oar), 
To  the  smoke-wreathed  ships,  and,  under  the 

guns. 
They  went  up  the  side,  —  our  "  untried  "  ones. 

Quiet,  my  brave  boys;  hats  off,  all! 

They  are  here,  our  "untried"  boys  in  blue. 
Steady  the  block,  now,  all  hands  haul! 
Slow  on   the  line   there!  —  look    to    that 

crew ! 

Six  lads  hurt!  —  and  the  colors  there? 
Wrap  two  of  them  ?  —  hold !  Ease  back  the 

bow! 

Slow,  now,  on  the  line ! —  slack  down  with  care ! 
Steady!  they're  back  on  their  own  deck 

now ! 

The  cables  are  cut,  sir,  eighty-foot  spread, 
Six  boys  hurt,  and  —  two  of  them  dead. 

Half-mast  the  colors!  there's  work  to  do! 
There  are  two  red  marks  on  the  starboard 

gun, 
There  is  still  some  work  that  is  not  quite 

done. 
For  our  "  untried  "  boys  that  are  tried  and 

true. 

It  was  n't  all  play  when  they  cut  the  wires,  — 
Well  named  is  that  bay  of  the  "Hundred 
Fires." 

ROBERT  BURNS  WTILSON. 
June  2,  1898. 


A  few  days  later,  on  May  ?4,  189S,  the  battle 
ship  Oregon  arrived  at  Jupiter  Inlet,  Florida,  after 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  voyages  in  history. 
I   On  March  9  the  ship,  then  at  San  Francisco,  was 


624 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


ordered  to  circle  South  America  and  join  the 
Atlantic  squadron,  and  the  journey  of  nearly 
fifteen  thousand  miles  was  accomplished  with 
out  starting  a  rivet. 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  OREGON 

LIGHTS  out !  And  a  prow  turned  towards  the 

South, 

And  a  canvas  hiding  each  cannon's  mouth, 
And  a  ship  like  a  silent  ghost  released 
Is  seeking  her  sister  ships  in  the  East. 

A  rush  of  water,  a  foaming  trail, 
An  ocean  hound  in  a  coat  of  mail, 
A  deck  long-lined  with  the  lines  of  fate, 
She  roars  good-by  at  the  Golden  Gate. 

On !  On !  Alone  without  gong  or  bell. 
But  a  burning  fire,  like  the  fire  of  hell. 
Till  the  lookout  starts  as  his  glasses  show 
The  white  cathedral  of  Callao. 

A  moment's  halt  'neath  the  slender  spire; 
Food,  food  for  the  men,  and  food  for  the  fire. 
Then  out  to  the  sea  to  rest  no  more 
Till  her  keel  is  grounded  on  Chili's  shore. 

South!  South!  God  guard  through  the  un 
known  wave, 

Where  chart  nor  compass  may  help  or  save, 
Where  the  hissing  wraiths  of  the  sea  abide 
And  few  may  pass  through  the  stormy  tide. 

North !  North !  For  a  harbor  far  away, 
For  another  breath  in  the  burning  day ; 
For  a  moment's  shelter  from  speed  and  pain, 
And  a  prow  to  the  tropic  sea  again. 

Home !  Home !  With  the  mother  fleet  to  sleep 
Till  the  call  shall  rise  o'er  the  awful  deep; 
And  the  bell  shall  clang  for  the  battle  there, 
And  the  voice  of  guns  is  the  voice  of  prayer! 

One  more  to  the  songs  of  the  bold  and  free. 
When  your  children  gather  about  your  knee; 
When  the  Goths  and  Vandals  come  down  in 

might 

As  they  came  to  the  walls  of  Rome  one  night ; 
When  the  lordly  William  of  Deloraine 
Shall  ride  by  the  Scottish  lake  again; 
When  the  Hessian  spectres  shall  flit  in  air 
As  Washington  crosses  the  Delaware; 
When  the  eyes  of  babes  shall  be  closed  in  dread 
As  the  story  of  Paul  Revere  is  read; 


When  your  boys  shall  ask  what  the  guns 

are  for, 

Then  tell  them  the  tale  of  the  Spanish  war, 
And    the   breathless   millions   that   looked 

upon 
The  matchless  race  of  the  Oregon. 

JOHN  JAMES  MEEHAN. 


BATTLE-SONG  OF  THE  OREGON 

THE  billowy  headlands  swiftly  fly 

The  crested  path  I  keep, 
My  ribboned  smoke  stains  many  a  sky, 

My  embers  dye  the  deep; 
A  continent  has  hardly  space  — 

Mid -ocean  little  more, 
Wherein  to  trace  my  eager  race 

While  clang  the  alarums  of  war. 

I  come,  the  warship  Oregon, 

My  wake  a  whitening  world, 
My  cannon  shotted,  thundering  on 

With  battle-flags  unfurled. 
My  land  knows  no  successful  foe  — 

Behold,  to  sink  or  save. 
From  stoker's  flame  to  gunner's  aim 

The  race  that  rules  the  wave! 

A  nation's  prayers  my  bulwark  are 

Though  ne'er  so  wild  the  sea; 
Flow  time  or  tide,  come  storm  or  star, 

Throbs  my  machinery. 
Lands  Spain  has  lost  forever  peer 

From  every  lengthening  coast, 
Till  rings  the  cheer  that  proves  me  near 

The  flag  of  Columbia's  host. 

Defiantly  I  have  held  my  way 

From  the  vigorous  shore  where  Drake 
Dreamed  a  New  Albion  in  the  day 

He  left  New  Spain  a-quake; 
His  shining  course  retraced,  I  fight 

The  self-same  foe  he  fought. 
All  earth  to  light  with  signs  of  might 

Which  God  our  Captain  wrought. 

Made  mad,  from  Santiago's  mouth 

Spain's  ships-of-battle  dart: 
My  bulk  comes  broadening  from  the  south, 

A  hurricane  at  heart; 
Its  desperate  armories  blaze  and  boom, 

Its  ardent  engines  beat; 
And  fiery  doom  finds  root  and  bloom 

Aboard  of  the  Spanish  fleet.  .  .  . 


STRIKE  THE  BLOW 


625 


The  hundredweight  of  the  Golden  Hind 

With  me  are  ponderous  tons. 
The  ordnance  great  her  deck  that  lined 

Would  feed  my  ravening  guns, 
Her  spacious  reach  in  months  and  years 

I've  shrunk  to  nights  and  days; 
Yet  in  my  ears  are  ringing  cheers 

Sir  Frank  himself  would  raise : 

For  conquereth  not  mine  engines'  breath 

Nor  sides  steel-clad  and  strong. 
Nor  bulk,  nor  rifles  red  with  death: 

To  Spain,  too,  these  belong; 
What  made  that  old  Armada  break 

This  newer  victory  won: 
Jehovah  spake  by  the  sons  of  Drake 

At  each  incessant  gun. 

I  come,  the  warship  Oregon, 

My  wake  a  whitening  world, 
My  cannon  shotted,  thundering  on 

With  battle-flags  unfurled. 
My  land  knows  no  successful  foe  — 

Behold,  to  sink  or  save, 
From  stoker's  flame  to  gunner's  aim 

The  race  that  rides  the  wave  I 

WALLACE  RICE. 

A  few  days  before,  Sampson's  fleet  had  bom 
barded  San  Juan,  Porto  Rico,  ineffectually,  and 
then  came  word  that  the  Spanish  squadron  had 
slipped  into  the  harbor  of  Santiago,  Cuba,  to 
coal  and  refit.  It  was  not  until  May  29  that  its 
presence  there  was  discovered  by  the  Americans, 
who  proceeded  at  once  to  blockade  the  harbor. 

STRIKE  THE  BLOW 

THE  four-way  winds  of  the  world  have  blown, 

And  the  ships  have  ta'en  the  wave; 
The  legions  march  to  the  trumps'  shrill  call 
'Neath  the  flag  of  the  free  and  brave. 
The  hounds  of  the  sea 
Have  trailed  the  foe, 
They    have    trailed    and    tracked   him 

down, — 

Then  wait  no  longer,  but  strike,  O  land, 
With  the  dauntless    strength    of    thy 

strong  right  hand, 
Strike  the  blow! 

The  armored  fleets,  with  their  grinning  guns, 

Have  the  Spaniard  in  his  lair; 
They  have  tracked  him  down  where  the  ram 
parts  frown. 

And  they'll  halt  and  hold  him  there. 


They  have  steamed  in  his  wake, 

They  have  seen  him  go, 
They  have  bottled  and  corked  him  up; 
Then  send  him  home  to  the  under- 

foam, 
Till  the  wide  sea  shakes  to  the  far  blue 

dome; 
Strike  the  blow! 

The  Cuban  dead  and  the  dying  call, 

The  children  starved  in  the  light 
Of  the  aid  that  waits  till  the  hero  deed 
Breaks  broad  on  the  tyrant's  might. 
The  starved  and  the  weak 

In  their  hour  of  woe 
Are  calling,  land,  on  thee; 
Then  why  delay  in  thy  dauntless  sway  ? 
On,  on,  to  the  charge  of  the  freedom- 
way, 
Strike  the  blow! 

They  have   ta'en  the  winds  of  the   Carib 

seas, 

Thy  fleets  that  know  not  fear; 
Their  ribs  of  steel  have  yearned  to  reel 
In  the  dance  of  the  cannoneer. 
Thy  sons  of  the  blue 

That  wait  to  go 

Would  leap  with  a  will  to  the  charge. 
Then  send  them  the  word  so  long  de 
ferred  ; 
They  have  listened  late,  but  they  have 

not  heard ; 
Strike  the  blow! 

They    have    listened    late    in    the   desolate 

land, 

They  have  looked  through  brimming  eyes, 
And  starving  women  have  held  dead  babes 
To  their  heart  with  a  thousand  sighs. 
On,  on  to  the  end, 
O  land,  the  foe 
Beneath  thy  sword  shall  fall, 
Thy  ships  of  steel  have  tracked  them 

home, 
Ye  are  king  of  the  land  and  king  of  the 

foam. 
Strike  the  blow! 


On  June  1,  1898,  a  great  portion  of  Sampson's 
fleet  was  off  the  harbor,  and  it  was  decided  to 
block  the  entrance  by  sinking  the  collier  Merrimac 
in  the  channel.  The  enterprise  was  intrusted  to 
Lieutenant  Richmond  Pearson  Hobson,  and  a  crew 
of  eight  volunteers. 


626 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


EIGHT  VOLUNTEERS 

EIGHT  volunteers !  on  an  errand  of  death ! 

Eight  men !    Who  speaks  ? 
Eight   men    to  go  where   the   cannon's  hot 
breath 

Burns  black  the  cheeks. 

Eight  men  to  man  the  old  Merrimac's  hulk; 
Ei<*ht  men  to  sink  the  old  steamer's  black 

bulk, 
Blockade   the  channel  where  Spanish  ships 

skulk,  — 

Eight  men  !   Who  speaks  ? 
"Eight    volunteers!"     said    the    Admiral's 


Eight  men !   Who  speaks  ? 
Who    will    sail    under    El    Morro's    black 
crags  ?  — 

Sure  death  he  seeks. 
Who  is  there  willing  to  offer  his  life? 
Willing  to  march  to  this  music  of  strife,  — 
Cannon  for  drum  and  torpedo  for  fife? 

Eight  men !   Who  speaks  ? 

Eight  volunteers !   on  an  errand  of  death ! 

Eight  men !   Who  speaks  ? 
Was    there  a   man  who    in    fear    held    his 

breath  ? 

With  fear-paled  cheeks? 
From  ev'ry  war-ship  ascended  a  cheer! 
From    ev'ry    sailor's    lips    burst    the    word 

"Here!" 

Four  thousand  heroes  their  lives  volunteer! 
Eight  men !   Who  speaks  ? 

LANSING  C.  BAILEY. 


It  was  impossible  to  get  the  boat  ready  that 
nii?ht,  but  at  last,  at  3.30  on  the  morning  of 
June  2,  she  stood  away  for  the  harbor.  The 
Spaniards  saw  her  as  she  entered  and  rained  a 
storm  of  fire  upon  her.  A  moment  later,  torn  by 
her  own  torpedoes  and  those  of  the  enemy,  she 
sank  to  the  bottom.  Hobson  and  his  men  were 
taken  prisoners  by  the  Spaniards. 


THE  MEN  OF  THE  MERRIMAC 

[JuneS,  1898] 

H ail  to  Hobson !  Hail  to  Hobson !  hail  to  all 

the  valiant  set! 
Clausen,  Kelly,  Deignan,  Phillips,  Murphy, 

Montagu,  Charetie! 


Howsoever  we  laud  and  laurel  we  shall  be 

their  debtors  yet! 
Shame  upon  us,  shame  upon  us,  should  the 

nation  e'er  forget  I 

Though  the  tale  be  worn  with  the  telling,  let 
the  daring  deed  be  sung! 

Surely  never  brighter  valor,  since  this  wheel 
ing  world  was  young, 

Thrilled  men's  souls  to  more  than  wonder, 
till  praise  leaped  from  every  tongue! 

Trapped  at  last  the  Spanish  sea-fox  in  the  hill- 
locked  harbor  lay; 

Spake  the  Admiral  from  his  flagship,  rocking 
oft'  the  hidden  bay, 

"We  must  close  yon  open  portal  lest  he  slip 
by  night  away!" 

"Volunteers!"    the    signal    lifted;    rippling 

through  the  fleet  it  ran; 
Was  there  ever  deadlier  venture?  was  there 

ever  bolder  plan  ? 
Yet  the  gallant  sailors  answered,  answered 

well-nigh  to  a  man ! 

Ere  the  dawn's  first  rose-flush  kindled,  swiftly 

sped  the  chosen  eight 
Toward   the  batteries  grimly  frowning  o'er 

the  harbor's  narrow  gate; 
Sooth,  he  holds  his  life  but  lightly  who  thus 

gives  the  dare  to  Fate. 

They  had  passed  the  outer  pcrtal  where  the 
guns  grinned,  tier  o'er  tier, 

When  portentous  Morro  thundered,  and  So- 
capa  echoed  clear, 

And  Estrella  joined  the  chorus  pandemoniac 
to  hear. 

Heroes  without  hands  to  waver,  heroes  with 
out  hearts  to  quail. 

There  they  sank  the  bulky  collier  'mid  the 
hurtling  Spanish  hail; 

Long  shall  float  our  starry  banner  if  such  lads 
beneath  it  sail! 

Hail  to  Hobson !  hail  to  Hobson !  hail  to  all 

the  valiant  set ! 
Clausen,  Kelly,  Deignan,  Phillips,  Murphy, 

Montagu,  Charette! 
Howsoe"er  we  laud  and  laurel  we  shall  be 

their  debtors  yet! 
Shame  upon  us,  shame  upon  us,  should  the 

nation  e'er  forget! 

CLINTON  SCOLI.ARD. 


THE   CALL   TO   THE   COLORS 


627 


THE  VICTORY-WRECK1 
[June  3,  189S] 

O  STEALTHILY-CREEPING  Merrimac, 

Hush  lew  your  fiery  breath; 
You  who  gave  life  to  ships  of  strife 

Are  sailing  unto  your  death!  — 
"I  am  ready  and  dressed  for  burial, 

Beneath  the  Cuban  wave; 
But  still  I  can  fight  for  God  and  right, 

While  resting  in  my  grave!" 

O  men  that  are  sailing  the  Merrimac, 

Your  hearts  are  beating  high; 
But  send  a  prayer  through  the  smoking  air, 

To  your  Captain  in  the  sky !  — 
"We  know  there  is  death  in  every  breath, 

As  we  cling  to  the  gunless  deck; 
And  grand  will  be  our  voyage,  if  we 

Can  make  of  our  ship  a  wreck!" 

Now  drop  the  bower  of  the  Merrimac, 

And  swing  her  to  the  tide. 
Now  scuttle  her,  braves,  and  bid  the  waves 

Sweep  into  her  shattered  side !  — 
"Through  a  flying  hell  of  shot  and  shell, 

We  passed  Death,  with  a  sneer; 
We  wrenched  our  life  from  a  novel  strife, 

And  even  our  foemen  cheer!" 

WILL  CARLETON. 


Examination  showed  that  the  channel  had  not 
been  blocked.  The  Merrimac  had  gone  too  far  in, 
and  had  sunk  lengthwise  of  the  channel  instead 
of  across  it.  So  the  Spanish  ships  were  not  yet 
"corked." 

HOBSON  AND  HIS  MEN 

[June  3,  1898] 

HOBSON  went  towards  death  and  hell, 

Hobson  and  his  men, 
Unregarding  shot  and  shell. 
And  the  rain  of  fire  that  fell; 
Calm,  undaunted,  fearless,  bold, 
Every  heart  a  heart  of  gold. 
Steadfast,  daring,  uncontrolled,  — 

Hobson  and  his  men. 

Hobson  came  from  death  and  hell, 
Hobson  and  his  men, 

1  From  "Songs  of  Two  Centuries,"  published 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


Shout  the  tidings,  ring  the  bell, 
Let  the  pealing  anthems  swell ; 
Back  from  wreck  and  raft  and  wave, 
From  the  shadow  of  the  grave, 
Every  honor  to  the  brave.  — 
Hobs6n  and  his  men. 

ROBERT  LOVEMAN. 


Meanwhile,  nearer  home,  things  were  moving 
slowly  enough,  for  the  War  Department  developed 
a  startling  unpreparedness  and  inefficiency.  Two 
hundred  thousand  volunteers  were  called  for, 
but,  though  every  state  responded  instantly,  the 
work  of  mobilizing  these  troops  was  conducted 
in  so  bungling  a  fashion  that,  by  the  beginning 
of  June,  only  three  regiments,  in  addition  to  the 
regulars,  had  reached  the  rendezvous  at  Tampa, 
Florida. 


THE  CALL  TO  THE  COLORS 

"ARE  you  ready,  O  Virginia, 

Alabama,  Tennessee? 
People  of  the  Southland,  answer! 

For  the  land  hath  need  of  thee." 
'  Here ! "  from  sandy  Rio  Grande, 

Where  the  Texan  horsemen  ride; 
'Here!"  the  hunters  of  Kentucky 

Hail  from  Chatterawah's  side; 
Every  toiler  in  the  cotton, 

Every  rugged  mountaineer, 
Velvet-voiced  and  iron-handed, 

Lifts  his  head  to  answer,  "Here! 
Some  remain  who  charged  with  Pickett, 

Some  survive  who  followed  Lee; 
They  shall  lead  their  sons  to  battle 

For  the  flag,  if  need  there  be." 

'Are  you  ready,  California, 

Arizona,  Idaho? 
'Come,  oh,  come,  unto  the  colors!' 

Heard  you  not  the  bugle  blow  ? " 
Falls  a  hush  in  San  Francisco 

In  the  busy  hives  of  trade; 
In  the  vineyards  of  Sonoma 

Fall  the  pruning  knife  and  spade; 
In  the  mines  of  Colorado 

Pick  and  drill  are  thrown  aside; 
Idly  in  Seattle  harbor 

Swing  the  merchants  to  the  tide; 
And  a  million  mighty  voices 

Throb  responsive  like  a  drum, 
Rolling  from  the  rough  Sierras, 

"You  have  called  us,  and  we  come." 


628 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


O'er  Missouri  sounds  the  challenge  — 

O'er  the  great  lakes  and  the  plain ; 
"Are  you  ready,  Minnesota? 

Are  you  ready,  men  of  Maine?" 
From  the  woods  of  Ontonagon, 

From  the  farms  of  Illinois, 
From  the  looms  of  Massachusetts, 

"We  are  ready,  man  and  boy." 
Axemen  free,  of  Androscoggin, 

Clerks  who  trudge  the  cities'  paves, 
Gloucester  men  who  drag  their  plunder 

From  the  sullen,  hungry  waves, 
Big-boned  Swede  and  large-limbed  German, 

Celt  and  Saxon  swell  the  call, 
And  the  Adirondacks  echo: 

"We  are  ready,  one  and  all." 

Truce  to  feud  and  peace  to  faction ! 

All  forgot  is  party  zeal 
When  the  war-ships  clear  for  action, 

When  the  blue  battalions  wheel. 
Europe  boasts  her  standing  armies,  — 

Serfs  who  blindly  fight  by  trade; 
We  have  seven  million  soldiers, 

And  a  soul  guides  every  blade. 
Laborers  with  arm  and  mattock, 

Laborers  with  brain  and  pen, 
Railroad  prince  and  railroad  brakeman 

Build  our  line  of  fighting  men. 
Flag  of  righteous  wars !  close  mustered 

Gleam  the  bayonets,  row  on  row, 
Where  thy  stars  are  sternly  clustered. 

With  their  daggers  towards  the  foe ! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 


ESSEX  REGIMENT  MARCH 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  EIGHTH  MASSACHUSETTS 
UNITED  STATES  VOLUNTEER  INFANTRY  IN 
THE  SPANISH  WAR 

ONCE  more  the  Flower  of  Essex  is  marching 

to  the  wars; 
We  are  up  to  serve  the  Country  wherever 

fly  her  Stars; 
Ashore,  afloat,  or  far  or  near,  to  her  who  bore 

us  true, 
We  will  do  a  freeman's  duty  as  we  were  born 

to  do. 
Lead  the  van,  and  may  we  lead  it, 

God  of  armies,  till  the  wrong  shall  cease; 
Speed  the  war,  and  may  we  speed  it 
To    the  sweet  home-coming,    God    of 
peace! 


Our  fathers  fought  their  battles,  and  con 
quered  for  the  right. 

Three  hundred  years  victorious  from  every 
stubborn  fight; 

And  still  the  Flower  of  Essex  from  the  ancient 
stock  puts  forth. 

Where  the  bracing  blue  sea-water  strings  the 
sinews  of  the  North. 

The  foe  on  field,  the  foe  on  deck  to  us  is  all 

the  same; 
With  both  the  Flower  of  Essex  has  played  a 

winning  game; 
We  threw   them   on   the   village  green,  we 

cowed  them  in  Algiers, 
And  ship  to  ship  we  shocked  them  in  our  first 

great  naval  years. 

We  rowed  the  Great  Commander  o'er  the 

ice-bound  Delaware, 
When  the  Christmas  snow  was  falling  in  the 

dark  and  wintry  air; 
And  still  the  Flower  of  Essex,  like  the  heroes 

gone  before, 
Where  the  tide  of  danger  surges  shall  take  the 

laboring  oar. 

The  Flower  that  first  lay  bleeding  along  by 

Bloody  Brook 
Full  oft  hath  Death  upgathered  in  war's  red 

reaping-hook; 
Its  home  is  on  our  headlands;  'tis  sweeter 

than  the  rose; 
But  sweetest  in  the  battle's  breath  the  Flower 

of  Essex  blows. 

At  the  best  a  dear  home-coming,  at  the  worst 

a  soldier's  grave. 
Beating  the  tropic  jungle,  ploughing  the  dark 

blue  wave; 
But  while  the  Flower  of  Essex  from  the  granite 

rock  shall  come. 
None  but  the  dead  shall  cease  to  fight  till  all 

go  marching  home. 

March  onward  to  the  leaguer  wherever  it  may 

lie; 
The  Colors  make  the  Country  whatever  be  the 

sky; 
Where  round  the  Flag  of  Glory  the  storm 

terrific  blows, 
We  march,  we  sail,  whoever  fail,  the  Flower 

of  Essex  goes. 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 


WHEELER'S   BRIGADE  AT  SANTIAGO 


629 


THE  GATHERING 

WE  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming;  our  starry 

banner  shines 
Above    the    swarming    legions,    sweeping 

downward  to  the  sea. 
From  Northern  hill,  and  Western  plain,  and 

towering  Southern  pines 
The   serried    hosts   are   gathering,  —  and 
Cuba  shall  be  free. 

We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming.  Thy  sturdy 

patriots  brave, 
Who  fight  as  fought  our  fathers  in  the  old 

time  long  ago. 
Shall  see  the  Spanish  squadrons  sink  beneath 

the  whelming  wave, 

And  plant  their  own  loved  banner  on  the 
ramparts  of  their  foe. 

We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming.  Across  the 

billow's  foam 
Our  gallant  ships  are  bearing  our  bravest 

down  to  thee, 
W7hile  earnest  prayers  are  rising  from  every 

freeman's  home 

That  freedom's  God  may  lead  them  on,  and 
Cuba  shall  be  free. 

HERBERT  B.  SWETT. 


It  was  evident  that  an  army  was  badly  needed 
to  support  the  fleet  at  Santiago,  and  on  June  7, 
1898,  the  force  at  Tampa  was  ordered  to  embark 
for  that  place,  under  command  of  General  William 
Shafter.  Everything  was  confusion,  and  it  was 
not  until  June  14  that  the  transports  finally  made 
their  way  down  the  bay. 


COMRADES 

Now  from  their  slumber  waking,  — 

The  long  sleep  men  thought  death 
The  War  Gods  rise,  inhaling  deep 

The  cannon's  fiery  breath ! 
Their  mighty  arms  uplifted, 

Their  gleaming  eyes  aglow 
With  the  steadfast  light  of  battle, 

As  it  blazed  long  years  ago ! 

Now  from  the  clouds  they  summon 
The  Captains  of  the  Past, 

Still  sailing  in  their  astral  ships 
The  star-lit  spaces  vast; 

And  from  Valhalla's  peaceful  plains 
The  Great  Commanders  come, 


And  marshal  again  their  armies 
To  the  beat  of  the  muffied  drum. 

His  phantom  sails  unfurling 

McDonough  sweeps  amain 
Where  once  his  Yankee  sailors  fought 

The  battle  of  Champlain ! 
And  over  Erie's  waters, 

Again  his  flagship  sweeps, 
While  Perry  on  the  quarter-deck 

His  endless  vigil  keeps. 

Silent  as  mists  that  hover 

When  twilight  shadows  fall, 
The  ghosts  of  the  royal  armies 

Foregather  at  the  call; 
And  their  glorious  chiefs  are  with  them, 

From  conflicts  lost  or  won, 
As  they  gather  round  one  mighty  shade, 

The  shade  of  Washington ! 

Side  by  side  with  the  warships 

That  sail  for  the  hostile  fleet, 
The  ships  of  the  Past  are  sailing 

And  the  dauntless  comrades  meet; 
And  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

The  armed  spirits  come, 
And  march  with  our  own  battalions 

To  the  beat  of  the  muffled  drum! 

HENRY  R.  DORR. 


The  fleet  reached  Santiago  June  20,  and  Shafter 
decided  to  move  directly  upon  the  city.  But  the 
army  had  lost  or  forgotten  its  lighters  and 
launches,  so  the  task  of  disembarking  it  fell  upon 
the  navy  and  was  admirably  performed.  Next 
morning.  General  Joseph  Wheeler,  with  four 
squadrons  of  dismounted  cavalry,  was  ordered 
forward.  Two  of  these  squadrons  were  composed 
of  the  "  Rough  Riders,"  under  command  of  Leon 
ard  Wood  and  Theodore  Roosevelt. 


WHEELER'S  BRIGADE  AT 
SANTIAGO 

BENEATH  the  blistering  tropical  sun 
The  column  is  standing  ready. 
Awaiting  the  fateful  command  of  one 
Whose  word  will  ring  out 
To  an  answering  shout 
To  prove  it  alert  and  steady. 
And  a  stirring  chorus  all  of  them  sung 

With  singleness  of  endeavor, 
Though  some  to  "The  Bonny  Blue  Flag"  had 

swung 
And  some  to  "The  Union  For  Ever." 


630 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  order  came  sharp  through  the  desperate 

air 

And  the  long  ranks  rose  to  follow, 
Till  their  dancing  banners  shone  more  fair 
Than  the  brightest  ray 
Of  the  Cuban  day 
On  the  hill  and  jungled  hollow; 
And  to  "Maryland"  some  in  the  days  gone 

by 

Had  fought  through  the  combat's  rumble, 
And  some  for  "Freedom's  Battle-Cry" 
Had  seen  the  broad  earth  crumble. 

Full  many  a  widow  weeps  in  the  night 

Who   had    been  a  man's   wife    in    the 

morning; 

For  the  banners  we  loved  we  bore  to  the 
height 

Where  the  enemy  stood 
As  a  hero  should, 
His  valor  his  country  adorning; 
But  drops  of  pride  with  your  tears  of  grief, 

Ye  American  women,  mix  ye! 
For  the  North  and  South,  with  a  Southron 

chief, 
Kept  time  to  the  tune  of  "Dixie." 

WALLACE  RICE. 


After  great  confusion  and  several  days'  delay, 
the  remainder  of  the  army  came  up,  and  on 
the  afternoon  of  June  30  a  general  advance  was 
ordered.  By  dawn  of  July  1  the  troops  were  in 
position  and  the  attack  began. 


DEEDS  OF  VALOR  AT  SANTIAGO 

[July  1.  1898) 

WHO  cries  that  the  days  of  daring  are  those 

that  are  faded  far, 
That  never  a  light  burns  planet-bright  to  be 

hailed  as  the  hero's  star? 
Let  the  deeds  of  the  dead  be  laurelled,  the 

brave  of  the  elder  years, 
But  a  song,  we  say,  for  the  men  of  to-day,  who 

have  proved  themselves  their  peers! 

High  in  the  vault  of  the  tropic  sky  is  the  garish 

eye  of  the  sun, 
And  down  with  its  crown  of  guns  afrown 

looks  the  hilltop  to  be  won; 
There  is  the  trench  where  the  Spaniard  lurks, 

his  hold  and  his  hiding-place, 
And  he  who  would  cross  the  space  between 

must  meet  death  face  to  face. 


The  black  mouths  belch  and  thunder,  and 

the  shrapnel  shrieks  and  flies; 
Where  are  the  fain  and  the  fearless,  the  lads 

with  the  dauntless  eyes  ? 
Will  the  moment  find  them  wanting!    Nay, 

but  with  valor  stirred ! 
Like  the  leashed  hound  on  the  coursing-ground 

they  wait  but  the  warning  word. 

"  Charge ! "  and  the  line  moves  forward,  moves 

with  a  shout  and  a  swing, 
While  sharper  far  than  the  cactus-thorn  is  the 

spiteful  bullet's  sting. 
Now  they  are  out  in  the  open,  and  now  they 

are  breasting  the  slope, 
While  into  the  eyes  of  death  they  gaze  as  into 

the  eyes  of  hope. 

Never  they  wait  nor  waver,  but  on  they  clam 
ber  and  on, 

With  "Up  with  the  flag  of  the  Stripes  and 
Stars,  and  down  with  the  flag  of  the 
Don!" 

What  should  they  bear  through  the  shot-rent 
air  but  rout  to  the  ranks  of  Spain, 

For  the  blood  that  throbs  in  their  hearts  is  the 
blood  of  the  boys  of  Anthony  Wayne ! 

See,  they  have  taken  the  trenches !  Where  are 

the  foemen  ?   Gone ! 
And  now  "Old  Glory"  waves  in  the  breeze 

from  the  heights  of  San  Juan ! 
And   so,  while  the  dead  are  laurelled,  the 

brave  of  the  elder  years, 
A  song,  we  say,  for  the  men  of  to-day  who 

have  proved  themselves  their  peers. 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


The  morning  was  consumed  in  blundering  about 
under  the  Spanish  fire,  trying  vainly  to  carry  out 
the  orders  of  a  general  lying  in  a  hammock  far  in 
the  rear.  Finally,  the  subordinate  commanders 
acted  for  themselves;  Lawton,  Ludlow.and  Chaffee 
took  the  fort  of  El  Caney,  and  the  Hough  Riders 
charged  San  Juan. 


THE  CHARGE  AT  SANTIAGO 

[July  1,  1898] 

WITH  shot  and  shell,  like  a  loosened  hell, 

Smiting  them  left  and  right, 
They  rise  or  fall  on  the  sloping  wall 

Of  beetling  bush  and  height! 
They  do  not  shrink  at  the  awful  brink 

Of  the  rifle's  hurtling  breath, 


WHEELER  AT    SANTIAGO 


631 


But  onward  press,  as  their  ranks  grow  less, 
To  the  open  arms  of  death ! 

Through  a  storm  of  lead,  o'er  maimed  and 
dead, 

Onward  and  up  they  go. 
Till  hand  to  hand  the  unflinching  band 

Grapple  the  stubborn  foe. 
O'er  men  that  reel,  'mid  glint  of  steel, 

Bellow  or  boom  of  gun, 
They  leap  and  shout  over  each  redoubt 

Till  the  final  trench  is  won ! 

O  charge  sublime !   Over  dust  and  grime 

Each  hero  hurls  his  name 
In  shot  or  shell,  like  a  molten  hell, 

To  the  topmost  heights  of  fame ! 
And  prone  or  stiff,  under  bush  and  cliff, 

Wounded  or  dead  men  lie, 
While  the  tropic  sun  on  a  grand  deed  done 

Looks  with  his  piercing  eye! 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


PRIVATE  BLAIR  OF  THE 
REGULARS 

[July  1,  1898] 

IT  was  Private  Blair,  of  the  regulars,  before 

dread  El  Caney, 
Who  felt  with  every  throb  of  his  wound  the 

life-tide  ebb  away; 
And  as  he  dwelt  in  a  fevered  dream  on  the 

home  of  his  youthful  years, 
He  heard  near  by  the  moan  and  sigh  of  two 

of  the  volunteers. 

He  raised  him  up  and  gazed  at  them,  and 

likely  lads  they  were, 
But  when  he  bade  them  pluck  up  heart  he 

found  they  could  not  stir. 
Then  a  bullet  ploughed  the  sodden  loam,  and 

his  fearless  face  grew  dark, 
For  he  saw  through  the  blur  a  sharpshooter 

who  made  the  twain  his  mark. 

And  his  strength  leaped  into  his  limbs  again, 
and  his  fading  eye  burned  bright; 

And  he  gripped  his  gun  with  a  steady  hand 
and  glanced  along  the  sight; 

Then  another  voice  in  that  choir  of  fire  out- 
spake  with  a  deadly  stress, 

And  in  the  trench  at  El  Caney  there  lurked 
a  Spaniard  less. 


But  still  the  moans  of  the  volunteers  went  up 

through  the  murky  air, 
And  there  kindled  the  light  of  a  noble  thought 

in  the  brain  of  Private  Blair. 
The  flask  at  his  side,  he  had  drained  it  dry 

•in  the  blistering  scorch  and  shine, 
So,  unappalled,  he  crept  and  crawled  in  the 

face  of  the  firing  line. 

The  whirring  bullets  sped  o'erhead,  and  the 

great  shells  burst  with  a  roar, 
And  the  shrapnel  tore  the  ground  around  like 

the  tusks  of  the  grisly  boar; 
But  on  he  went,  with  his  high  intent,  till  he 

covered  the  space  between. 
And  came  to  the  place  where  the  Spaniard  lay' 

and  clutched  his  full  canteen. 

Then  he  writhed  him  back  o'er  the  bloody 

track,  while  Death  drummed  loud  in 

his  ears, 
And  pressed  the  draught  he  would  fain  have 

quaffed  to  the  lips  of  the  volunteers. 
Drink  1  cried  he ;  don't  think  of  me,  for  I  'm 

only  a  regular, 
While  you,  have  homes  in  the  mother-land 

where  your  waiting  loved  ones  are. 

Then  his  soul  was  sped  to  the  peace  of  the 
dead.  All  praise  to  the  men  who  dare, 

And  honor  be  from  sea  to  sea  to  the  deed  of 
Private  Blair! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

The  fort  on  San  Juan  was  carried  and  held  all 
the  next  day,  despite  Spanish  attacks.  But 
Shafter  was  alarmed  and  considered  withdrawing 
the  army,  though  strongly  opposed  by  General 
Wheeler,  who  had  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting 
from  the  very  first. 

WHEELER  AT  SANTIAGO 

INTO  the  thick  of  the  fight  he  went,  pallid  and 
sick  and  wan. 

Borne  in  an  ambulance  to  the  front,  a  ghostly 
wisp  of  a  man ; 

But  the  fighting  soul  of  a  fighting  man,  ap 
proved  in  the  long  ago, 

Went  to  the  front  in  that  ambulance,  and  the 
body  of  Fighting  Joe. 

Out  from  the  front  they  were  coming  back, 
smitten  of  Spanish  shells  — 

Wounded  boys  from  the  Vermont  hills  and 
the  Alabama  dells ; 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


"Put  them  into  this  ambulance;  I'll  ride  to 

the  front,"  he  said, 
And  he  climbed  to  the  saddle  and  rode  right 

on,  that  little  old  ex-Confed. 

From  end  to  end  of  the  long  blue  ranks  rose 
up  the  ringing  cheers, 

And  many  a  powder-blackened  face  was  fur 
rowed  with  sudden  tears, 

As  with  flashing  eyes  and  gleaming  sword, 
and  hair  and  beard  of  snow, 

Into  the  hell  of  shot  and  shell  rode  little  old 
Fighting  Joe! 

Sick  with  fever  and  racked  with  pain,  he 

could  not  stay  away, 
For  he  heard  the  song  of  the  yester-year  in  the 

deep-mouthed  cannon's  bay  — 
He  heard  in  the  calling  song  of  the  guns  there 

was  work  for  him  to  do, 
Where  his  country's  best  blood  splashed  and 

flowed  'round  the  old  Red,  White  and 

Blue. 

Fevered  body  and  hero  heart!  this  Union's 

heart  to  you 
Beats  out  in  love  and  reverence  —  and  to  each 

dear  boy  in  blue 
Who  stood  or  fell  'mid  the  shot  and  shell,  and 

cheered  in  the  face  of  the  foe, 
As,  wan  and  white,  to  the  heart  of  the  fight 

rode  little  old  Fighting  Joe! 

JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON. 


Then,  suddenly,  sorrow  gave  place  to  joy,  and 
discouragement  to  enthusiasm  for  a  great  victory 
won.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
July  3,  1898,  the  Spanish  fleet  came  rushing  out  of 
the  harbor  in  a  mad  effort  to  escape.  The  Ameri 
can  ships  closed  in,  and  a  battle  to  the  death  began, 
which  ended  in  the  total  destruction  of  the  Spanish 
fleet. 

SPAIN'S  LAST  ARMADA 

[July  3,  1 898] 

THEY  fling  their  flags  upon  the  morn, 
Their  safety 's  held  a  thing  for  scorn, 
As  to  the  fray  the  Spaniards  on  the  wings  of 

war  are  borne; 

Their  sullen  smoke-clouds  writhe  and  reel, 
And  sullen  are  their  ships  of  steel. 
All  ready,  cannon,  lanyards,  from  the  fight 
ing-tops  to  keel. 

They  cast  upon  the  golden  air 

One  glancing,  helpless,  hopeless  prayer, 


To  ask  that  swift  and  thorough  be  the  victory 

falling  there; 

Then  giants  with  a  cheer  and  sigh 
Burst  forth  to  battle  and  to  die 
Beneath  the  walls  of  Morro  on  that  morning 
in  July. 

The  Teresa  heads  the  haughty  train 
To  bear  the  Admiral  of  Spain, 
She  rushes,  hurtling,  whitening,  like  the  sum 
mer  hurricane; 

El  Morro  glowers  in  his  might; 
Socapa  crimsons  with  the  fight, 
The    Oquendo's    lunging    lightning    blazes 
through  her  sombre  night. 

In  desperate  and  eager  dash 
The  Vizcaya  hurls  her  vivid  flash, 
As  wild  upon  the  waters  her  enormous  bat 
teries  crash; 

Like  spindrift  scuds  the  fleet  Colon, 
And,  on  her  bubbling  wake  bestrewn, 
Lurch,  hungry  for  the  slaughter,  El  Furor  and 
El  Pluton. 

Round  Santiago's  armored  crest, 
Serene,  in  their  gray  valor  dressed, 
Our  behemoths  lie  quiet,  watching  well  from 

south  and  west; 

Their  keen  eyes  spy  the  harbor-reek; 
The  signals  dance,  the  signals  speak; 
Then  breaks  the  blasting  riot  as  our  broad 
sides  storm  and  shriek! 

Quick,  poising  on  her  eagle-wings, 
The  Brooklyn  into  battle  swings; 
The  wide  sea  falls  and  wonders  as  the  titan 

Texas  springs; 
The  Iowa  in  monster-leaps 
Goes  bellowing  above  the  deeps; 
The  Indiana  thunders  as  her  terror  onward 
sweeps. 

And,  hovering  near  and  hovering  low 
Until  the  moment  strikes  to  go, 
In  gallantry  the  Gloucester  swoops  down  on 

her  double  foe; 

She  volleys  —  the  Furor  falls  lame; 
Again  —  and  the  Pluton  's  aflame, 
Hurrah,  on  high  she's  tossed  her!  Gone  the 
grim  destroyers'  fame! 

And  louder  yet  and  louder  roar 
The  Oregon's  black  cannon  o'er 
The  clangor  and  the  booming  all  along  the 
Cuban  shore. 


SANTIAGO 


633 


She's  swifting  down  her  valkyr-path, 
Her  sword  sharp  for  the  aftermath, 
With  levin  in  her  glooming,  like  Jehovah  in 
His  wrath. 

Great  ensigns  snap  and  shine  in  air 
Above  the  furious  onslaught  where 
Our  sailors  cheer  the  battle,  danger  but  a 

thing  to  dare; 

Our  gunners  speed,  as  oft  they've  sped, 
Their  hail  of  shrilling,  shattering  lead, 
Swift-sure  our  rifles  rattle,  and  the  foeman's 
decks  are  red. 

Like  baying  bloodhounds  lope  our  ships, 
Adrip  with  fire  their  cannons'  lips; 
We  scourge  the   fleeing  Spanish,   whistling 

weals  from  scorpion-whips; 
Till,  livid  in  the  ghastly  glare, 
They  tremble  on  in  dread  despair, 
And  thoughts  of  victory  vanish  in  the  carnage 
they  must  bear. 

Where  Cuban  coasts  in  beauty  bloom. 
Where  Cuban  breakers  swirl  and  boom, 
The  Teresa's  onset  slackens  in  a  scarlet  spray 

of  doom ; 

Near  Nimanima's  greening  hill 
The  streaming  flames  cry  down  her  will, 
Her  vast  hull  blows  and  blackens,  prey  to 
every  mortal  ill. 

On  Juan  Gonzales'  foaming  strand 
The  Oquendo  plunges  "neath  our  hand, 
Her  armaments  all  strangled,  and  her  hope 

a  showering  brand ; 
She  strikes  and  grinds  upon  the  reef, 
And,  shuddering  there  in  utter  grief, 
In  misery  and  mangled,  wastes  away  beside 
her  chief. 

The  Vizcaya  nevermore  shall  ride 
From  out  Aserradero's  tide, 
With  hate  upon  her  forehead   ne'er  again 

she'll  pass  in  pride; 
Beneath  our  fearful  battle-spell 
She  moaned  and  struggled,  flared  and  fell. 
To  lie  a-gleam  and  horrid,  while  the  piling 
fires  swell. 

Thence  from  the  wreck  of  Spain  alone 
Tears  on  the  terrified  Colon, 
In  bitter  anguish  crying,  like  a  storm-bird 
forth  she's  flown; 


Her  throbbing  engines  creak  and  thrum; 
She  sees  abeam  the  Brooklyn  come. 
For  life  she's  gasping,  flying;  for  the  combat 
is  she  dumb. 

Till  then  the  man  behind  the  gun 
Had  wrought  whatever  must  be  done  — 
Here,  now,  beside  our  boilers  is  the  fight 

fought  out  and  won ; 

Where  great  machines  pulse  on  and  beat, 
A-swelter  in  the  humming  heat 
The  Nation's  nameless  toilers  make  her  mas 
tery  complete. 

The  Cape  o'  the  Cross  casts  out  a  stone 
Against  the  course  of  the  Colon, 
Despairing  and   inglorious  on  the  wind  her 

white  flag's  thrown; 
Spain's  last  Armada,  lost  and  wan, 
Lies  where  Tarquino's  stream  rolls  on, 
As  round   the  world,  victorious,   looms  the 
dreadnaught  Oregon. 

The  sparkling  daybeams  softly  flow 
To  glint  the  twilight  afterglow, 
The  banner  sinks  in  splendor  that  in  battle 

ne'er  was  low; 

The  music  of  our  country's  hymn 
Rings  out  like  songs  of  seraphim, 
Fond  memories  and  tender  fill  the  evening 
fair  and  dim ; 

Our  huge  ships  ride  in  majesty 
Unchallenged  o'er  the  glittering  sea, 
Above  them  white  stars  cluster,  mighty  em 
blem  of  the  free; 
And  all  a-down  the  long  sea-lane 
The  fitful  bale-fires  wax  and  wane 
To  shed  their  lurid  lustre  on  the  empire  that 
was  Spain. 

WALLACE  RICE. 

SANTIAGO 

[July  3,  1898] 

IN  the  stagnant  pride  of  an  outworn  race 

The  Spaniard  sail'd  the  sea : 
Till  we  haled  him  up  to  God's  judgment- 
place — 

And  smashed  him  by  God's  decree  I 

Out  from  the  harbor,  belching  smoke. 
Came  dashing  seaward  the  Spanish  ships  —• 


634 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


And  from  all  our  decks  a  great  shout  broke, 

Then  our  hearts  came  up  and  set  us  a-choke 

For  joy  that  we  had  them  at  last  at  grips ! 

No  need  for  signals  to  get  us  away  — 
We  were  off  at  score,  with  our  screws 

a-gleam ! 
Through  the  blistering  weeks  we'd  watched 

the  bay 
And  our  captains  had  need  not  a  word  to 

say — 

Save  to  bellow  and  curse  down  the  pipes 
for  steam! 

Leading  the  pack  in  its  frightened  flight 
The    Colon   went   foaming   away    to   the 

west  — 

Her  tall  iron  bulwarks,  black  as  night. 
And  her  great  black  funnels,  sharp  in  sight 
'Gainst  the  green-clad  hills  in  their  peace 
and  rest. 

Her  big  Hontaria  blazed  away 

At  the  Indiana,  our  first  in  line. 
The  short-ranged  shot  drenched  our  decks 

with  spray  — 

While  our  thirteen-inchers,  in  answering  play, 
Ripped  straight  through  her  frame  to  her 
very  spine! 


Straight  to  its  end  went  our  winning  fight 
With   the   thunder  of  guns   in  a  mighty 

roar. 

Our  hail  of  iron,  casting  withering  blight. 
Turning  the  Spanish  ships  in  their  flight 
To  a  shorter  death  on  the  rock-bound  shore. 

The  Colon,  making  her  reckless  race 

With  the  Brooklyn  and  Oregon  close  a-beam, 

Went  dashing  landward  —  and  stopped  the 
chase 

By  grinding  her  way  to  her  dying-place 
In  a  raging  outburst  of  flame  and  steam. 

So  the  others,  facing  their  desperate  luck. 
Drove    headlong   on    to    their    rock-dealt 

death  — 

The  Vizcaya,  yielding  before  she  struck. 
The  riddled  destroyers,  a  huddled  ruck. 
Sinking,  and  gasping  for  drowning  breath. 

So  that  flying  battle  surged  down  the  coast. 
With  its   echoing   roar  from   the   Cuban 
land; 


So  the  dying  war-ships  gave  up  the  ghost; 
So  we  shattered  and  mangled  the  Philistine 

host  — 

So  the  fight  was  won  that  our  Sampson 
planned ! 

THOMAS  A.  JANVIER. 

The  American  battleships  were  practically  un 
injured,  and  the  fleet  had  lost  only  two  men,  one 
killed  and  one  injured,  both  on  the  Brooklyn. 
The  Spanish  loss  was  350  killed  or  drowned,  160 
wounded,  and  1  774  taken  prisoners. 

THE  FLEET  AT  SANTIAGO 

[JulyS,  1898] 

THE  heart  leaps  with  the  pride  of  their  story. 

Predestinate  lords  of  the  sea ! 
They  are  heirs  of  the  flag  and  its  glory. 

They  are  sons  of  the  soil  it  keeps  free; 
For  their  deeds  the  serene  exaltation 

Of  a  cause  that  was  stained  with  no  shame. 
For  their  dead  the  proud  tears  of  a  nation, 

Their  fame  shall  endure  with  its  fame. 

The  fervor  that  grim,  unrelenting. 

The  founders  in  homespun  had  fired. 
With  blood  the  free  compact  cementing, 

Was  the  flame  that  their  souls  had  inspired. 
They  were  sons  of  the  dark  tribulations. 

Of  the  perilous  days  of  the  birth 
Of  a  nation  sprung  free  among  nations, 

A  new  hope  to  the  children  of  earth! 

They  were  nerved  by  the  old  deeds  of  daring, 

Every  tale  of  Decatur  they  knew, 
Every  ship  that,  the  bright  banner  bearing, 

Shot  to  keep  it  afloat  in  the  blue; 
They  were  spurred  by  the  splendor  undying 

Of  Somer's  fierce  fling  in  the  bay. 
And  the  Watchword  that  Lawrence  died  cry 
ing. 

And  of  Cushing's  calm  courage  were  they. 

By  the  echo  of  guns  at  whose  thunder 

Old  monarchies  crumbled  and  fell. 
When  the  warships  were  shattered  asunder 

And  their  pennants  went  down  in  the  swell; 
By  the  strength  of  the  race  that,  unfearing, 

Faces  death  till  the  death  of  the  last, 
Or  has  sunk  with  the  fierce  Saxon  cheering, 

Its  colors  still  nailed  to  the  mast  — 

So  they  fought  —  and  the  stern  race  immortal 
Of  Cromwell  and  Hampton  and  Perm 


THE  DESTROYER   OF   DESTROYERS 


635 


Has  thrown  open  another  closed  portal, 

Stricken  chains  from  a  new  race  of  men. 
So  they  fought,  so  they  wop,  so  above  them 

Blazed  the  light  of  a  consecrate  aim; 
Empty  words!    Who  may  tell  how  we  love 

them, 

How  we  thrill  with  the  joy  of  their  fame ! 
CHARLES  E.  RUSSELL. 


Particularly  gallant  was  the  part  played  by  the 
Gloucester,  a  converted  yacht  with  no  armor, 
under  Commander  Wainwright.  She  was  lying 
inshore  near  the  harbor  mouth,  and  opened  with 
her  little  rapid-fire  guns  on  the  great  battleships 
as  they  swept  past;  then,  the  moment  the  Spanish 
destroyers.  Furor  and  Pluton,  appeared,  she 
rushed  straight  upon  them  with  absolute  disre 
gard  of  the  shore  batteries.  Within  twenty  min 
utes,  the  Pluton  went  down  in  deep  water  and  the 
Furor  was  beached  and  sunk. 


THE  DESTROYER  OF  DESTROYERS 

[July3,  1898] 

FROM  Santiago,  spurning  the  morrow, 
Spain's  ships  come  steaming,  big  with  black 

sorrow : 

Over  the  ocean,  first  on  our  roster, 
Runs    Richard    Wainwright,    glad    on    the 
Gloucester. 

Boast  him,  and  toast  him! 
Wainwright!  The  Gloucester! 

Great  ships  and  gaunt  ships,  steel-clad  and 

sable, 

Roll  on  resplendent,  monsters  of  fable: 
Crash  all  our  cannon,  quick  Maxims  rattle. 
Red  death  and  ruin  rush  through  the  battle; 

Red  death  and  dread  death 
Ravage  and  rattle. 

Speed  on  Spain's  cruisers,  towers  of  thunder: 
Calm  rides  the  Gloucester,  though  the  waves 

wonder; 

Morro  roars  at  her,  enemies  looming 
On  their  wakes  heave  her,  vast  through  the 
glooming; 

Thunders  and  wonders 
Speak  from  the  glooming. 

Sped   are  Spain's  cruisers;   then   'mid   the 

clangor 

Dart  her  destroyers,  lurid  with  anger; 
Shouts    Richard    Wainwright,    quivers    the 

Gloucester: 


Where  the  Furor  goes  Wainwright  has  crossed 
her. 

Boast  him.  and  toast  him ! 
Wainwright!   The  Gloucester! 

Wide  to  the  westward  El  Furor  flutters: 
Hid  in  bright  vapors  there  Wainwright  mut 
ters; 

Under  Socapa  races  the  faster. 
Smiles  at  Spain's  gunners,  laughs  at  disaster; 

Aiming  and  flaming 
Faster  and  faster. 

Wide  to  the  westward  El  Pluton  plunges; 
At  her  with  rapiers  now  Wainwright  lunges! 
Swords  of  fierce  scarlet,  blades  blue  as  light 
ning; 
Rapid  guns  snapping,  little  guns  brightening; 

Four-pounders,  six-pounders, 
Lunging  like  lightning. 

Done  the  destroyers,  blazing  and  bursting: 
Berserker  Wainwright  rides  to  their  worsting; 
Seethe  the  Pluton's  sides,  soon  to  exhaust  her ; 
Flames   the  Furor's  deck,  doomed   by   the 
Gloucester. 

Boast  him,  and  toast  him! 
Wainwright!  The  Gloucester! 

Where  the  Pluton  lies  lifts  the  red  leven  — 
Fire-clouds  prodigious  dash  against  Heaven; 
Where  the  Pluton  lay  void  swells  the  ocean ; 
Shattered  and  sunken,  spent  her  devotion; 

Waves  where  wet  graves  were, 
Deep  in  the  ocean. 

Shrieking  toward  Cuba,  agonized,  broken, 
El  Furor  's  hasting,  her  fate  bespoken ; 
There  in  the  shallows  'mid  the  white  surges 
Her  guns,  deserted,  moan  out  their  dirges; 

Swelling  and  knelling 
Through  the  white  surges. 

Wainwright  in  mercy  does  his  endeavor: 
Some  he  shall  rescue;  more  rest  for  ever  — 
Say  a  prayer  for  them,  one  kindly  Ave. 
Spain  weeps  her  wounded,  wails  a  lost  navy; 

Fails  them,  bewails  them, 
Says  them  an  Ave. 

Off  Santiago,  when  from  beleaguer 
Rushed  forth  Cervera,  daring  and  eager, 
Who  stood    Spain's  onset?    Who  met  and 
tossed  her? 


636 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Wainwright,  the  Maine's  man,  glad  on  the 
Gloucester ! 

Boast  him,  and  toast  him! 
Wainwright!   The  Gloucester! 

WALLACE  RICE. 


The  evolutions  of  the  Brooklyn,  under  Com 
modore  Winfield  Scott  Schley,  have  been  the  sub 
ject  of  bitter  controversy.  Schley,  finding  himself 
too  near  the  Spaniards,  made  a  wide  turn  away 
from  them,  wishing,  he  afterwards  alleged,  to 
preserve  his  ship,  which  was  the  fastest  of  our 
squadron,  to  head  off  any  of  the  Spanish  ships 
which  might  escape. 

THE  BROOKLYN  AT  SANTIAGO 

[July3,  1898] 

'Twixr  clouded  heights  Spain  hurls  to  doom 

Ships  stanch  and  brave. 
Majestic,  forth  they  flash  and  boom 

Upon  the  wave. 

El  Morro  raises  eyes  of  hate 

Far  out  to  sea, 
And  speeds  Cervera  to  his  fate 

With  cannonry. 

The  Brooklyn  o'er  the  deep  espies 

His  flame-wreathed  side: 
She  sets  her  banners  on  the  skies 

In  fearful  pride. 

On,  to  the  harbor's  mouth  of  fire, 

Fierce  for  the  fray, 
She  darts,  an  eagle  from  his  eyre, 

Upon  her  prey. 

She  meets  the  brave  Teresa  there  — 

Sigh,  sigh  for  Spain !  — 
And  beats  her  clanging  armor  bare 

With  glittering  rain. 

The  bold  Vizcaya's  lightnings  glance 

Into  the  throng 
Where  loud  the  bannered  Brooklyn  chants 

Her  awful  song. 

Down  swoops,  in  one  tremendous  curve, 

Our  Commodore; 
His  broadsides  roll,  the  foemen  swerve 

Toward  the  shore. 

In  one  great  round  his  Brooklyn  turns 
And,  girdling  there 


This  side  and  that  with  glory,  burns 
Spain  to  despair. 

Frightful  in  onslaught,  fraught  with  fate 

Her  missiles  hiss: 
The  Spaniard  sees,  when  all  too  late, 

A  Nemesis. 

The  Oquendo's  diapason  swells; 

Then,  torn  and  lame, 
Her  portholes  turn  to  yawning  wells, 

Geysers  of  flame. 

Yet  fierce  and  fiercer  breaks  and  cries 

Our  rifles'  dread: 
The  doomed  Teresa  shudders  —  lies 

Stark  with  her  dead. 

How  true  the  Brooklyn's  battery  speaks 

Eulate  knows, 
As  the  Vizcaya  staggers,  shrieks 

Her  horrent  woes. 

Sideward  she  plunges:  nevermore 

Shall  Biscay  feel 
Her  heart  throb  for  the  ship  that  wore 

Her  name  in  steel. 

The  Oquendo's  ports  a  moment  shone, 

As  gloomed  her  knell; 
She  trembles,  bursts  —  the  ship  is  gone 

Headlong  to  hell. 

The  fleet  Colon  in  lonely  flight  — 

Spain's  hope,  Spain's  fear!  — 
Sees,  and  it  lends  her  wings  of  fright, 

Schley's  pennant  near. 

The  fleet  Colon  scuds  on  alone  — 

God,  how  she  runs !  — 
And  ever  hears  behind  her  moan 

The  Brooklyn's  guns. 

Our  ruthless  cannon  o'er  the  flood 

Roar  and  draw  nigh; 
Spain's  ensign  stained  with  gold  and  blood. 

Falls  from  on  high. 

The  world  she  gave  the  World  has  passed  — 

Gone,  with  her  power  — 
Dead,  'neath  the  Brooklyn's  thunder-blast, 

In  one  great  hour. 

The  bannered  Brooklyn !  gallant  crew, 
And  gallant  Schley! 


THE   MEN   BEHIND   THE    GUNS 


637 


Proud  is  the  flag  his  sailors  flew 
Along  the  sky. 

Proud  is  his  country:  for  each  star 

Our  Union  wears, 
The  fighting  Brooklyn  shows  a  scar  — 

So  much  he  dares. 

God  save  us  war  upon  the  seas; 

But,  if  it  slip. 
Send  such  a  chiefv  with  men  like  these, 

On  such  a  ship! 

WALLACE  RICE. 


The  Oregon,  which  had  arrived  from  her  fifteen- 
thousand-mile  voyage  from  San  Francisco,  also 
took  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  battle,  and  did 
splendid  service. 

THE  RUSH  OF  THE  OREGON 

THEY  held  her  South  to  Magellan's  mouth, 
Then  East  they  steered  her,  forth 

Through  the  farther  gate  of  the  crafty  strait, 
And  then  they  held  her  North. 

Six  thousand  miles  to  the  Indian  Isles! 

And  the  Oregon  rushed  home, 
Her  wake  a  swirl  of  jade  and  pearl, 

Her  bow  a  bend  of  foam. 

And  when  at  Rio  the  cable  sang, 

"There  is  war!  —  grim  war  with  Spain!" 

The  swart  crews  grinned  and  stroked  their  guns 
And  thought  on  the  mangled  Maine. 

In  the  glimmered  gloom  of  the  engine-room 
There  was  joy  to  each  grimy  soul, 

And  fainting  men  sprang  up  again 
And  piled  the  blazing  coal. 

Good  need  was  there  to  go  with  care; 

But  every  sailor  prayed 
Or  gun  for  gun,  or  six  to  one 

To  meet  them,  unafraid. 

Her  goal  at  last !  With  joyous  blast 

She  hailed  the  welcoming  roar 
Of  hungry  sea-wolves  curved  along 

The  strong-hilled  Cuban  shore. 

Long  nights  went  by.   Her  beamed  eye, 

Unwavering,  searched  the  bay 
Where  trapped  and  penned  for  a  certain  end 

The  Spanish  squadron  lay. 


Out  of  the  harbor  a  curl  of  smoke  — 

A  watchful  gun  rang  clear. 
Out  of  the  channel  the  squadron  broke 

Like  a  bevy  of  frightened  deer. 

Then  there  was  shouting  for  "steam,  more 
steam ! " 

And  fires  glowed  white  and  red ; 
And  guns  were  manned,  and  ranges  planned, 

And  the  great  ships  leaped  ahead. 

Then  there  was  roaring  of  chorusing  guns, 

Shatter  of  shell,  and  spray; 
And  who  but  the  rushing  Oregon 

Was  fiercest  in  chase  and  fray ! 

For  her  mighty  wake  was  a  seething  snake; 

Her  bow  was  a  billow  of  foam; 
Like  the  mailed  fists  of  an  angry  wight 

Her  shot  drove  crashing  home ! 

Pride  of  the  Spanish  navy,  ho ! 

Flee  like  a  hounded  beast! 
For  the  Ship  of  the  Northwest  strikes  a  blow 

For  the  Ship  of  the  far  Northeast ! 

In  quivering  joy  she  surged  ahead, 

Aflame  with  flashing  bars, 
Till  down  sunk  the  Spaniard's  gold  and  red 

And  up  ran  the  Clustered  Stars. 

"Glory  to  share"?  Aye,  and  to  spare; 

But  the  chiefest  is  hers  by  right 
Of  a  rush  of  fourteen  thousand  miles 

For  the  chance  of  a  bitter  fight! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 


The  high  quality  of  American  marksmanship 
was  never  more  conclusively  shown  than  in  this 
battle.  The  Spanish  ships  were  literally  blown  to 
pieces.  Here,  as  at  Manila,  the  victory  had  been 
won  by  "the  men  behind  the  guns." 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS 

A  CHEER  and  salute  for  the  Admiral,  and 

here's  to  the  Captain  bold. 
And  never  forget  the  Commodore's  debt  when 

the  deeds  of  might  are  told ! 
They  stand  to  the  deck  through  the  battle's 

wreck  when  the  great  shells  roar  and 

screech  — 
And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to 

practise  what  they  preach: 


638 


But  off  with  your  hat  and  three  times  three 
for  Columbia's  true-blue  sons, 

The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe  —  the 
men  behind  the  guns ! 

Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when 
they  swing  into  port  once  more. 

When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "green- 
backed  stuff,"  they  start  for  their 
leave-o'-shore; 

And  you'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue- 
bloused  chaps  who  loll  along  the 
street 

Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some 
fierce  "mustache"  to  eat  — 

Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who 
dazzles  and  fairly  stuns 

The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys  —  the 
lads  who  serve  the  guns. 

But  say  not  a  word  till  the  shot  is  heard  that 

tells  the  fight  is  on, 
Till   the   long,  deep  roar  grows  more  and 

more  from  the  ships  of  "Yank"  and 

"Don," 
Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire 

and  bursting  shell, 
And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  Despair  in  the 

throes  of  a  living  hell; 
Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship, 

unseen  by  the  midday  suns, 
You'll  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps 

—  the  men  behind  the  guns! 

Oh,  well  they  know  how  the  cyclones  blow 

that  they   loose  from   their  cloud  of 

death, 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunder-word 

their  fierce  ten-incher  saith! 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock, 

and  shake  with  the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the 

dead  and  reaches  for  his  spoil  — 
But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below  or  turns 

his  prow  and  runs. 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release 

to  the  men  behind  the  guns ! 

JOHN  JEROME  ROONEY. 


Admiral  Pasquale  de  Cervera,  in  command  of 
the  Spanish  fleet,  knew  from  the  first  how  desper 
ate  the  venture  was.  He  made  it  only  because 
forced  to  do  so  by  direct  orders  from  Madrid,  the 
Spanish  authorities  fearing  that  Santiago  would 
be  taken  and  the  whole  fleet  be  made  captive. 


CERVERA 

HAIL  to  thee,  gallant  foe! 

Well  hast  thou  struck  thy  blow  — 

Hopeless  of  victory  — 
Daring  unequal  strife. 
Valuing  more  than  life 

Honor  and  chivalry. 

Forth  from  the  harbor's  room 
Rushing  to  meet  thy  doom. 

Lit  by  the  day's  clear  light. 
'  Out  to  the  waters  free ! 
Out  to  the  open  sea! 

There  should  a  sailor  fight." 

Where  the  red  battle's  roar 
Beats  on  the  rocky  shore, 

Thunders  proclaiming 
How  the  great  cannon's  breath 
Hurls  forth  a  dreadful  death, 

Smoking  and  flaming. 

While  her  guns  ring  and  flash, 
See  each  frail  vessel  dash, 

Though  our  shots  rend  her, 
Swift  through  the  iron  rain, 
Bearing  the  flag  of  Spain, 

Scorning  surrender. 

Hemmed  in  'twixt  foe  and  wreck 
Blood  soaks  each  slippery  deck, 

Still  madly  racing, 
Till  their  ships  burn  and  reel, 
Crushed  by  our  bolts  of  steel, 

Firing  and  chasing. 

Driven  to  the  rocks  at  last, 
Now  heels  each  shattered  mast, 

Flames  the  blood  drinking. 
Each  with  her  load  of  dead. 
Wrapped  in  that  shroud  of  red, 

Silenced  and  sinking. 

Vanquished !  but  not  in  vain : 
Ancient  renown  of  Spain, 

Coming  upon  her. 
Once  again  lives  in  thee, 
All  her  old  chivalry, 

All  her  old  honor. 

Ever  her  past  avers, 
When  wealth  and  lands  were  hers. 
Though  she  might  love  them, 


McILRATH   OF   MALATE 


639 


Die  for  their  keeping,  yet 
Spain,  in  her  pride,  has  set 
Honor  above  them. 

BERTRAND  SHADWELL. 


Santiago  surrendered  a  few  days  later  and  an 
army  of  occupation,  under  General  Nelson  A.  Miles, 
landed  at  Porto  Rico  and  took  possession  of  the 
island,  after  a  few  sharp  skirmishes.  In  the  Phil 
ippines,  operations  against  Manila  were  pushed 
vigorously  forward,  and  on  August  13,  after  sharp 
actions  at  Malate,  Singalon,  and  Ermita,  the  city 
was  captured.  Among  the  killed  at  Malate  was 
Sergeant  J.  A.  Mcllrath,  Battery  H,  Third  Artil 
lery  Regulars. 


McILRATH  OF  MALATE 

[August  13.  1898] 

YES,  yes,  my  boy,  there's  no  mistake, 
You  put  the  contract  through ! 

You  lads  with  Shafter,  I'll  allow, 
Were  heroes  tried  and  true; 

But  don't  forget  the  men  who  fought 

About  Manila  Bay, 
And  don't  forget  brave  Mcllrath 

Who  died  at  Malate. 

The  night  was  black,  save  where  the  forks 

Of  tropic  lightning  ran. 
When,  with  a  long  deep  thunder-roar, 

The  typhoon  storm  began. 

Then,  suddenly  above  the  din, 

We  heard  the  steady  bay 
Of  volleys  from  the  trenches  where 

The  Pennsylvanias  lay. 

The  Tenth,  we  thought,  could  hold  their 
own 

Against  the  feigned  attack, 
And,  if  the  Spaniards  dared  advance 

Would  pay  them  doubly  back. 

But  soon  we  marked  the  volleys  sink 

Into  a  scattered  fire  — 
And  now  we  heard  the  Spanish  guns 

Boom  nigher  yet  and  nigher! 

Then,  like  a  ghost,  a  courier 
Seemed  past  our  picket  tossed. 

With  wild  hair  streaming  in  his  face  — 
"  We  're  lost  —  we  re  lost  —  we  're  lost ! " 


"Front,  front  —  in  God's  name  —  front!"  he 
cried: 

"Our  ammunition's  gone!" 
He  turned  a  face  of  dazed  dismay  — 

And  through  the  night  sped  on! 

"Men,  follow  me!"  cried  Mcllrath, 

Our  acting  sergeant  then ; 
And  when  he  gave  the  word  he  knew 

He  gave  the  word  to  men ! 

Twenty  there  —  not  one  man  more  — 

But  down  the  sunken  road 
We  dragged  the  guns  of  Battery  H, 

Nor  even  stopped  to  load ! 

Sudden,  from  the  darkness  poured 

A  storm  of  Mauser  hail  — 
But  not  a  man  there  thought  to  pause, 

Nor  any  man  to  quail ! 

Ahead,  the  Pennsylvanias'  guns 

In  scattered  firing  broke; 
The  Spanish  trenches,  red  with  flame, 

In  fiercer  volleys  spoke! 

Down  with  a  rush  our  twenty  came  — 

The  open  field  we  passed  — 
And  in  among  the  hard-pressed  Tenth 

We  set  our  feet  at  last ! 

Up,  with  a  leap,  sprang  Mcllrath, 

Mud -spattered,  worn  and  wet, 
And,  in  an  instant,  there  he  stood 

High  on  the  parapet! 

"Steady,  boys!  we've  got  'em  now  — 

Only  a  minute  late! 
It 's  all  right,  lads  —  we've  got 'em  whipped  — 

Just  give  'em  volleys  straight!" 

Then,  up  and  down  the  parapet 

With  head  erect  he  went, 
As  cool  as  when  he  sat  with  us 

Beside  our  evening  tent ! 

Not  one  of  us,  close  sheltered  there 

Down  in  the  trench's  pen, 
But  felt  that  we  would  rather  die 

Than  shame  or  grieve  him  then ! 

The  fire  so  close  to  being  quenched 

In  panic  and  defeat, 
Leaped  forth,  by  rapid  volleys  sped, 

In  one  long  deadly  sheet! 


640 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


A  cheer  went  up  along  the  line 
As  breaks  the  thunder-call  — 

But,  as  it  rose,  great  God,  we  saw 
Our  gallant  sergeant  fall ! 

He  sank  into  our  outstretched  arms 
Dead  —  but  immortal  grown ; 

And  Glory  brightened  where  he  fell, 
And  valor  claimed  her  own ! 

JOHN  JEROME  ROONEY. 


Spain  had  had  enough.  She  recognized  the  folly 
of  struggling  further,  and  made  overtures  for  peace. 
On  August  12  a  protocol  was  signed  and  hostilities 
ceased.  Eight  days  later,  the  American  squadron 
steamed  into  New  York  harbor. 


WHEN  THE  GREAT  GRAY  SHIPS 
COME  IN1 

NEW  YORK  HARBOR,  August  20,  1898 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging, 

o'er  mapless  miles  of  sea, 
On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the 

furthermost  isles  are  free, 
And    the    furthermost    isles    make    answer, 

harbor,  and  height,  and  hill, 
Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  "  'T  is 

the  Mother  who  calls!   Be  still!" 
Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to 

hold  from  harm, 
Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield 

of  her  sovereign  arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons, 

who  bade  her  navies  roam. 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and 

who  calls  them  this  time  Home ! 

And  the  great  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the 
weary  watchers  rest. 

The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and 
deep  in  the  golden  west 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crim 
son  bars, 

And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad 
wakened  stars! 

Peace!  As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous 
cannonade, 

Peace  at  last!  is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of 
the  long  blockade, 

1  Copyright,  1898,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad 

release. 
From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is 

"Peace!  Thank  God  for  peace." 

Ah,   in   the  sweet  hereafter   Columbia  still 

shall  show 
The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how 

she  bade  them  rise  and  go,  — 
How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on 

her  children's  ear, 
South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and 

the  whole  land  answered,  "Here!" 
For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the 

heart  of  the  sailor's  song 
Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right 

should  meet  with  wrong, 
Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs, 

and  then,  on  the  decks  they  trod, 
Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the 

grace  of  their  country's  God ! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong 

and  free, 

To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  utter 
most  ends  of  sea. 
To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the 

enemy  lies  in  wait, 
To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink 

her  across  the  strait :  — 
But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships 

round  heads  for  home, 
And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in 

a  swirl  of  seething  foam. 
And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to 

greet  the  men  who  win ! 
Thank  God  for  peace !  Thank  God  for  peace, 

when  the  great  gray  ships  come  in! 
GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL. 


FULL  CYCLE 

SPAIN  drew  us  proudly  from  the  womb  of 

night, 

A  lusty  man-child  of  the  Western  wave,  — 
Who  now,  full-grown,  smites   the  old  mid 
wife  down. 

And  thrusts  her  deep  in  a  dishonored  grave. 
JOHN  WHITE  CHADWICK. 


Peace  commissioners  from  the  two  countries 
met  at  Paris  in  October,  and  a  treaty  of  peace  was 
signed  on  December  10,  1898.  Spain  relinquished 
all  sovereignty  over  Cuba,  and  ceded  Porto  Rico, 


THE  ISLANDS   OF  THE  SEA 


641 


Guam,  and  the  Philippine  Islands  to  the  United 
States,  receiving  in  payment  for  the  latter  the 
sum  of  twenty  million  dollars. 


BREATH  ON  THE  OAT 

FREE  are  the  Muses,  and  where  freedom  is 
They  follow,  as  the  thrushes  follow  spring, 
Leaving  the  old  lands  songless  there  behind ; 
Parnassus  disenchanted  suns  its  woods, 
Empty  of  every  nymph ;  wide  have  they  flown ; 
And  now  on  new  sierras  think  to  set 
Their  wandering  court,  and  thrill  the  world 

anew, 

Where  the  Republic  babbling  waits  its  speech ; 
For  but  the  prelude  of  its  mighty  song 
As  yet  has  sounded.  Therefore,  would  I  woo 
Apollo  to  the  land  I  love,  't  is  vain; 
Unknown  he  spies  on  us;  and  if  my  verse 
Ring  not  the  empyrean  round  and  round, 
'T  is  that  the  feeble  oat  is  few  of  stops. 
The  noble  theme  awaits  the  nobler  bard. 
Then  how  all  air  will  quire  to  it,  and  all 
The  great  dead  listen,  America !  —  For  lo, 
Diana  of  the  nations  hath  she  lived 
Remote,  and  hoarding  her  own  happiness 
In  her  own  land,  the  land  that  seemed  her 

first 

An  exile,  where  her  bark  was  cast  away. 
Till  maiden  grew  the  backward-hearted  child, 
And  on  that  sea  whose  waves  were  memories 
Turned  her  young  shoulder,  looked  with  stead 
fast  eyes 

Upon  her  wilderness,  her  woods,  her  streams ; 
Inland  she  ran,  and  gathering  virgin  joy 
Followed  her  shafts  afar  from  humankind. 
And  if  sometimes  her  isolation  drooped 
And  yearning  woke  in  her,  she  put  it  forth 
With  a  high  boast  and  with  a  sick  disdain ; 
Acteeons  fleeing,  into  antlers  branched 
The  floating  tresses  of  her  fancy,  and  far 
Her  arrows  smote  them  with  a  bleeding  laugh. 
O  vain  and  virgin,  O  the  fool  of  love ! 
Now  children  not  her  own  are  at  her  knee. 
For  stricken  by  her  path  lay  one  that  vexed 
Her  maiden  calm;  she  reached  a  petulant 

hand; 
And  the  old  nations  drew  sharp  breath  and 

looked. 
The  two-edged  sword,  how  came  it  in  her 

hand  ? 

The  sword  that  slays  the  holder  if  he  with 
hold. 

That  none  can  take,  or  having  taken  drop, 
The  sword  is  in  thy  hand,  America! 


The  wrath  of  God,  that  fillets  thee  with 

lightnings, 

America!   Strike  then;  the  sword  departs. 
Ah  God,  once  more  may  men  crown  drowsy 

days 

With  glorious  death,  upholding  a  great  cause ! 
I  deemed  it  fable;  not  of  them  am  I. 
Yet  if  they  loved  thee  on  the  loud  May-day 
Who  with  unexultant  thunder  wreathed  the 

flag, 

With  thunder  and  with  victory,  if  they 
Who    on    the    third    most   famous    of   our 

Fourths 
Along    the    seaboard    mountains    swept,    a 

storm 
Unleashed,    whose   tread    spurned    not   the 

wrecks  of  Spain, 
If  these  thy  sons  have  loved  thee,  and  have 

set 

Santiago  and  Manila  like  new  stars 
Crowding    thy    field    of    blue,    new    terror 

perched 

Like  eagles  on  thy  banners,  oh,  not  less 
I  love  thee,  who  but  prattle  in  the  prime 
Of  birds  of  passage  over  river  and  wood 
Thine  also,  piping  little  charms  to  lure, 
Uncaptured  and  unflying,  the  wings  of  song. 
JOSEPH  RUSSELL  TAYLOR. 


But  the  United  States  was  still  involved  in  a 
struggle  altogether  unforeseen  and  repugnant  to 
many  of  her  citizens.  The  Philippines  had  been 
bought  from  Spain,  and  with  them  the  United' 
States  had  taken  over  just  such  an  insurrection  as- 
Spain  had  encountered  in  Cuba. 

THE  ISLANDS  OF  THE  SEA 

GOD  is  shaping  the  great  future  of  the  Islands 

of  the  Sea; 
He  has  sown  the  blood  of  martyrs  and  the 

fruit  is  liberty; 
In  thick  clouds  and  in  darkness  He  has  sent 

abroad  His  word ; 
He  has  given  a  haughty  nation  to  the  cannon 

and  the  sword. 

He  has  seen  a  people  moaning  in  the  thousand' 
deaths  they  die ; 

He  has  heard  from  child  and  woman  a  ter 
rible  dark  cry; 

He  has  given  the  wasted  talent  of  the  steward 
faithless  found 

To  the  youngest  of  the  nations  with  His  abun 
dance  crowned. 


642 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


He  called  her  to  do  justice  where  none  but 

she  had  power; 
He  called  her  to  do  mercy  to  her  neighbor  at 

the  door; 
He  called  her  to  do  vengeance  for  her  own 

sons  foully  dead ; 
Thrice  did  He  call  unto  her  ere  she  inclined 

her  head. 

She  has  gathered  the  vast  Midland,  she  has 
searched  her  borders  round ; 

There  has  been  a  mighty  hosting  of  her  chil 
dren  on  the  ground ; 

Her  search-lights  lie  along  the  sea,  her  guns 
are  loud  on  land ; 

To  do  her  will  upon  the  earth  her  armies 
round  her  stand. 

The  fleet,  at  her  commandment,  to  either 

ocean  turns; 
Belted  around  the  mighty  world  her  line  of 

battle  burns; 
She  has  loosed  the  hot  volcanoes  of  the  ships 

of  flaming  hell; 
With  fire  and  smoke  and  earthquake  shock 

her  heavy  vengeance  fell. 

O  joyfullest  May  morning  when  before  our 
guns  went  down 

The  Inquisition  priesthood  and  the  dungeon- 
making  crown, 

While  through  red  lights  of  battle  our  starry 
dawn  burst  out. 

Swift  as  the  tropic  sunrise  that  doth  with  glory 
shout ! 

Be  jubilant,  free  Cuba,  our  feet  are  on  thy 

soil; 
Up  mountain  road,  through  jungle  growth, 

our  bravest  for  thee  toil; 
There  is  no  blood  so  precious  as  their  wounds 

pour  forth  for  thee; 
Sweet  be  thy  joys,  free  Cuba,  —  sorrows  have 

made  thee  free. 

Nor  Thou,  O  noble  Nation,  who  wast  so  slow 

to  wrath, 
With  grief  too  heavy-laden  follow  in  duty's 

path; 
Not  for  ourselves  our  lives  are ;  not  for  Thyself 

art  Thou; 
The  Star  of  Christian  Ages  is  shining  on  Thy 

brow. 


Rejoice,  O  mighty  Mother,  that  God  hath 

chosen  Thee 
To  be  the  western  warder  of  the  Islands  of 

the  Sea; 
He  lifteth  up.  He  casteth  down,  He  is  the  King 

of  Kings, 
Whose    dread    commands    o'er    awe-struck 

lands  are  borne  on  eagle's  wings. 
GEOBGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 

The  people  of  the  Philippines  had  fought  against 
Spanish  sovereignty  much  as  the  people  of  Cuba 
had.  A  band  of  them, under Emilio  Aguinaldo, had 
assisted  at  the  capture  of  Manila,  in  the  fond  hope 
that  the  defeat  of  the  Spaniards  would  mean 
Philippine  independence.  Instead,  they  found 
that  they  had  merely  traded  masters.  At  once 
they  took  up  arms  against  the  Americans. 

BALLADE  OF  EXPANSION 

1899 

TIME  was  he  sang  the  British  Brute, 

The  ruthless  lion's  grasping  greed. 
The  European  Law  of  Loot, 

The  despot's  devastating  deed ; 

But  now  he  sings  the  heavenly  creed 
Of  saintly  sword  and  friendly  fist, 

He  loves  you,  though  he  makes  you  bleed  — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

He  loves  you,  Heathen!  Though  his  foot 

May  kick  you  like  a  worthless  weed 
From  that  wild  field  where  you  have  root, 

And  scatter  to  the  winds  your  seed ; 

He's  just  the  government  you  need; 
If  you  object,  why,  he  '11  insist, 

And,  on  your  protest,  "draw  a  bead "  — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist ! 

He'll  take  you  to  him  coute  que  route  I 

He'll  win  you,  though  you  fight  and  plead. 
His  guns  shall  urge  his  ardent  suit. 

Relentless  fire  his  cause  shall  speed. 

In  time  you  '11  learn  to  write  and  read 
(That  is,  if  you  should  then  exist!). 

You  won't,  if  you  his  course  impede  — 
The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

ENVOI 

Heathen,  you  must,  you  shall  be  freed ! 

It's  really  useless  to  resist; 
To  save  your  life,  you'd  better  heed 

The  Ethical  Expansionist! 

HILDA  JOHNSON. 


ON  A  SOLDIER   FALLEN  IN  THE   PHILIPPINES 


643 


Misguided  they  no  doubt  were,  and  the  warfare 
they  waged  was  of  the  cruellest  kind ;  but  to  employ 
against  them  the  troops  of  a  Republic,  to  shoot 
them  down  as  "rebels,"  occasioned  in  the  United 
States  a  great  outburst  of  indignation. 

"REBELS" 

SHOOT  down  the  rebels  —  men  who  dare 

To  claim  their  native  land ! 
Why  should  the  white  invader  spare 

A  dusky  heathen  band  ? 

You  bought  them  from  the  Spanish  King, 

You  bought  the  men  he  stole; 
You  bought  perchance  a  ghastlier  thing  — 

The  Duke  of  Alva's  soul ! 

"  Freedom ! "  you  cry,  and  train  your  gun 

On  men  who  would  be  freed, 
And  in  the  name  of  Washington 

Achieve  a  Weyler's  deed. 

Boast  of  the  benefits  you  spread, 

The  faith  of  Christ  you  hold ; 
Then  seize  the  very  soil  you  tread 

And  fill  your  arms  with  gold. 

Go,  prostitute  your  mother-tongue, 

And  give  the  "rebel"  name 
To  those  who  to  their  country  clung, 

Preferring  death  to  shame. 

And  call  him  "loyal,"  him  who  brags 

Of  countrymen  betrayed  — 
The  patriot  of  the  money-bags, 

The  loyalist  of  trade. 

Oh,  for  the  good  old  Roman  days 

Of  robbers  bold  and  true, 
Who  scorned  to  oil  with  pious  phrase 

The  deeds  they  dared  to  do  — 

The  days  before  degenerate  thieves 

Devised  the  coward  lie 
Of  blessings  that  the  enslaved  receives 

Whose  rights  their  arms  deny ! 

I  hate  the  oppressor's  iron  rod, 

I  hate  his  murderous  ships, 
But  most  of  all  I  hate,  O  God, 

The  lie  upon  his  lips! 

Nay,  if  they  still  demand  recruits 

To  curse  Manila  Bay, 
Be  men ;  refuse  to  act  like  brutes 

And  massacre  and  slay. 


Or  if  you  will  persist  to  fight 

With  all  a  soldier's  pride, 
Why,  then  be  rebels  for  the  right 

By  Aguinaldo's  side ! 

ERNEST  CROSBY. 


But  the  administration  felt  that  it  had  gone  too 
far  to  draw  back;  spellbinders  raised  the  shout  that 
wherever  the  flag  was  raised  it  must  remain; 
new  regiments  were  shipped  to  the  Philippines  and 
the  war  against  the  natives  pushed  vigorously. 


ON  A   SOLDIER   FALLEN  IN  THE 
PHILIPPINES 

STREETS  of  the  roaring  town, 

Hush  for  him,  hush,  be  still! 

He  comes,  who  was  stricken  down 

Doing  the  word  of  our  will. 

Hush !  Let  him  have  his  state. 

Give  him  his  soldier's  crown. 

The  grists  of  trade  can  wait 

Their  grinding  at  the  mill, 
But  he  cannot  wait  for  his  honor,  now  the 

trumpet  has  been  blown. 
Wreathe  pride  now  for  his  granite  brow,  lay 
love  on  his  breast  of  stone. 

Toll !  Let  the  great  bells  toll 
Till  the  clashing  air  is  dim. 
Did  we  wrong  this  parted  soul? 
We  will  make  it  up  to  him. 
Toll !  Let  him  never  guess 
What  work  we  set  him  to. 
Laurel,  laurel,  yes; 
He  did  what  we  bade  him  do. 
Praise,  and  never  a  whispered  hint  but  the 

fight  he  fought  was  good; 
Never  a  word  that  the  blood  on  his  sword 

was  his  country's  own  heart's  blood. 

A  flag  for  the  soldier's  bier 
Who  dies  that  his  land  may  live; 
Oh.  banners,  banners  here. 
That  he  doubt  not  nor  misgive! 
That  he  heed  not  from  the  tomb 
The  evil  days  draw  near 
When  the  nation,  robed  in  gloom, 
With  its  faithless  past  shall  strive. 
Let  him  never  dream  that  his  bullet's  scream 

went  wide  of  its  island  mark, 
Home  to  the  heart  of  his  sinning  land  where 
she  stumbled  and  sinned  in  the  dark. 
WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY. 


644 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


On  February  5,  1 899,  General  Ricarti's  division 
of  the  Filipino  army  was  encountered  near  Santa 
Ana,  and  completely  routed.  It  was  at  this  battle 
that  Lieutenant  Charles  E.  Kilbourne.  Jr.,  and 
Lieutenant  W.  G.  Miles  performed  the  exploits 
described  in  the  following  poems. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  PACO  TOWN 

[February  5.  1899] 

IN  Paco  town  and  in  Paco  tower. 
At  the  height  of  the  tropic  noonday  hour. 
Some  Tagal  riflemen,  half  a  score, 
Watched  the  length  of  the  highway  o'er, 
And  when  to  the  front  the  troopers  spurred, 
Whiz-z !  whiz-z !  how  the  Mausers  whirred ! 

From  the  opposite  walls,  through  crevice  and 

crack, 

Volley  on  volley  went  ringing  back 
Where  a  band  of  regulars  tried  to  drive 
The  stinging  rebels  out  of  their  hive; 
"Wait,  till  our  cannon  come,  and  then," 
Cried  a  captain,  striding  among  his  men, 
"We'll  settle  that  bothersome  buzz  and  drone 
With  a  merry  little  tune  of  our  own!" 

The  sweltering  breezes  seemed  to  swoon. 
And  down  the  calle  the  thickening  flames 
Licked  the  roofs  in  the  tropic  noon. 
Then  through  the  crackle  and  glare  and  heat, 
And  the  smoke  and  the  answering  acclaims 
Of  the  rifles,  far  up  the  village  street 
Was  heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet. 
And  a  band  of  signalmen  swung  in  sight, 
Hasting  back  from  the  ebbing  fight 
That  had  swept  away  to  the  left  and  right. 

"  Ride ! "  yelled  the  regulars,  all  aghast, 

And  over  the  heads  of  the  signalmen, 

As  they  whirled  in  desperate  gallop  past, 

The  bullets  a  vicious  music  made, 

Like  the  whistle  and  whine  of  the  midnight 

blast 

On  the  weltering  wastes  of  the  ocean  when 
The  breast  of  the  deep  is  scourged  and  flayed. 

It  chanced  in  the  line  of  the  fiercest  fire 
A  rebel  bullet  had  clipped  the  wire 
That  led,  from  the  front  and  the  fighting,  down 
To  those  that  stayed  in  Manila  town; 
This  gap  arrested  the  watchful  eye 
Of  one  of  the  signalmen  galloping  by. 
And  straightway,  out  of  the  plunge  and  press, 
He  reined  his  horse  with  a  swift  caress 


And  a  word  in  the  ear  of  the  rushing  steed ; 
Then  back  with  never  a  halt  nor  heed 
Of  the  swarming  bullets  he  rode,  his  goal 
The  parted  wire  and  the  slender  pole 
That  stood  where  the  deadly  tower  looked 

down 
On  the  rack  and  ruin  of  Paco  town. 

Out  of  his  saddle  he  sprang  as  gay 
As  a  schoolboy  taking  a  holiday; 
Wire  in  hand  up  the  pole  he  went 
With  never  a  glance  at  the  tower,  intent 
Only  on  that  which  he  saw  appear 
As  the  line  of  his  duty  plain  and  clear. 
To  the  very  crest  he  climbed,  and  there, 
While  the  bullets  buzzed  in  the  scorching  air. 
Clipped  his  clothing,  and  scored  and  stung 
The  slender  pole-top  to  which  he  clung, 
Made  the  wire  that  was  severed  sound, 
Slipped  in  his  careless  way  to  the  ground, 
Sprang  to  the  back  of  his  horse,  and  then 
Was  off,  this  bravest  of  signalmen. 

Cheers  for  the  hero!  While  such  as  he, 
Heedless  alike  of  wounds  and  scars, 
Fight  for  the  dear  old  Stripes  and  Stars, 
Down  through  the  years  to  us  shall  be 
Ever  and  ever  the  victory! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

THE  DEED  OF  LIEUTENANT 
MILES 

[February  5,  1 899] 

WHEN  you  speak  of  dauntless  deeds, 
When  you  tell  of  stirring  scenes, 

Tell  this  story  of  the  isles 

Where  the  endless  summer  smiles,  — 

Tell  of  young  Lieutenant  Miles 
In  the  far-off  Philippines! 

'T  was  the  Santa  Ana  fight!  — 

All  along  the  Tagal  line 
From  the  thickets  dense  and  dire 
Gushed  the  fountains  of  their  fire; 
You  could  mark  their  rifles'  ire, 

You  could  hear  their  bullets  whine. 

Little  wonder  there  was  pause! 

Some  were  wounded,  some  were  dead 
"Call  Lieutenant  Miles!"  Became, 

In  his  eyes  a  fearless  flame. 
"  Yonder  blockhouse  is  our  aim ! " 
The  battalion  leader  said. 


THE  FIGHT  AT   DA  JO 


645 


"You  must  take  it  —  how  you  will; 

You  must  break  this  damned  spell !  " 
"Volunteers!"  cried  Miles.    'Twas  vain, 
For  that  narrow  tropic  lane 
'Twixt  the  bamboo  and  the  cane 
Was  a  very  lane  of  hell. 

There  were  five  stood  forth  at  last; 

God  above,  but  they  were  men ! 
"Come!"  exultantly  he  saith!  — 
Did  they  falter  ?  Not  a  breath ! 
Down  the  path  of  hurtling  death 

The  Lieutenant  led  them  then. 

Two  have  fallen  —  now  a  third ! 

Forward  dash  the  other  three; 
In  the  onrush  of  that  race 
Ne'er  a  swerve  or  stay  of  pace. 
And  the  Tagals  —  dare  they  face 

Such  a  desperate  company  ? 

Panic  gripped  them  by  the  throat,  — 

Every  Tagal  rifleman; 
And  as  though  they  seemed  to  see 
In  those  charging  foemen  three 
An  avenging  destiny, 

Fierce  and  fast  and  far  they  ran. 

So  a  salvo  for  the  six! 

So  a  round  of  ringing  cheers ! 
Heroes  of  the  distant  isles 
Where  the  endless  summer  smiles,  — 
Gallant  young  Lieutenant  Miles 

And  his  valiant  volunteers! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

So  the  war  went  on,  with  massacre,  ambush, 
and  lonely  murder.  The  conquest  of  the  islands 
was  proving  a  costly  one,  but  the  administration 
held  that  it  must  be  carried  through,  at  whatever 
sacrifice.  It  was  a  war  in  which  victory  and  defeat 
alike  brought  only  sorrow  and  disgust. 

AGUINALDO 

(PATRIOT  AND  EMPIRE) 

WHEN  arms  and  numbers  both  have  failed 

To  make  the  hunted  patriot  yield, 
Nor  proffered  riches  have  prevailed 
To  tempt  him  to  forsake  the  field, 
By  spite  and  baffled  rage  beguiled, 
Strike  at  his  mother  and  his  child. 

O  land  where  freedom  loved  to  dwell, 
Which  shook'st  the  despot  on  his  throne, 


And  o'er  the  beating  floods  of  hell 
Hope's  beacon  to  the  world  hast  shown, 
How  art  thou  fallen  from  thy  place! 
O    thing    of    shame!  —  O    foul    dis 
grace! 

Thy  home  was  built  upon  the  height 
Above  the  murky  clouds  beneath, 
In  the  blue  heaven's  freest  light, 
Thy  sword  flashed  ever  from  its  sheath, 
The  weak  and  the  oppressed  to  save  — 
To  smite  the  tyrant  —  free  the  slave. 

Thy  place  was  glorious  —  sublime. 

What  devil  tempts  thee  to  descend 
To  conquest,  robbery  and  crime? 
O  shameful  fate !  Is  this  the  end  ? 
Thy    hands    have    now  the    damning 

stain 
Of  human  blood  —  for  love  of  gain. 

With  weak  hypocrisy's  thin  veil, 

Seek  not  in  vain  to  blind  thine  eyes; 
Nor  shall  deceitful  prayers  prevail. 

Pray    not  —  for   fear   the   dead    should 

rise 
From  'neath  their  conquered  country's 

sod 
And  cry  against  thee  unto  God. 

BERTRAND  SHADWELL. 

The  capture  of  Aguinaldo,  March  23,  1901,  put 
a  virtual  end  to  organized  resistance;  though 
sporadic  outbreaks  continued  for  several  years. 
As  late  as  March,  1906,  such  an  affair  occurred,  a 
band  of  Moros,  men,  women,  and  children,  being 
surrounded  and  killed  on  the  summit  of  a  crater  at 
Dajo,  no  prisoners  being  taken. 

THE  FIGHT  AT  DAJO 

[March  7,  1906) 

THERE  are  twenty  dead  who 're  sleeping  near 

the  slopes  of  Bud  Dajo, 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  the  crater  where  the 

bolos  laid  them  low. 
And  their  comrades  feel  it  bitter,  and  their 

cheeks  grow  hot  with  shame, 
When  they  read  the  sneering  comments  which 

have  held  them  up  to  blame. 

They  were  told  to  scale  the  mountain  and  they 

stormed  its  beetling  crest, 
Spite  of  all  the  frantic  Moros,  though  they  did 

their  level  best, 


646 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Though  the  bullets  whistled  thickly,  and  the 

cliff  was  lined  with  foes, 
Though  the  campilans  were  flashing  and  the 

kriss  gave  deadly  blows. 

There  was  little  time  for  judging  ere  they  met 

in  deadly  strife 
What  the  sex  might  be  that  rushing  waved 

aloft  the  blood-stained  knife; 
For  the  foe  was  drunk  with  frenzy  and  the 

women  in  the  horde 
Thought  that  paradise  was  certain  could  they 

kill  first  with  the  sword. 

They'd  been  freely  offered  mercy,  but  they'd 
scorned  the  proffered  gift, 

For  their  priests  had  told  them  Allah  pro 
mised  victory  sure  and  swift. 

They  were  foolish  and  their  folly  cost  the 
lives  of  wife  and  son, 

But  they  fought  their  fight  like  heroes;  there 
were  none  that  turned  to  run. 

Though  they'd  robbed  and  slain  and  rav 
aged,  though  their  crimes  had  mounted 
high. 

Though 't  is  true  that  naught  became  them 
like  the  death  they  chose  to  die, 

One  would  think  to  read  the  papers  that  the 
troops  who  scaled  their  fort 

Were  a  lot  of  brutal  ruffians  shooting  girls 
and  babes  for  sport. 

More  than  one  who's  sleeping  soundly  'neath 
the  shade  of  Bud  Dajo 

Lost  his  life  while  giving  succor  to  the  one 
who  dealt  the  blow. 

Yet  his  comrades  feel  more  bitter  and  they 
give  a  far  worse  name 

To  the  men  who  dubbed  them  "butch 
ers"  and  have  smirched  the  army's 
fame. 

ALFRED  E.  WOOD. 


The  Philippines,  meanwhile,  had  been  placed 
under  a  civil  government;  but  no  promise  was 
given  them  of  ultimate  independence.  Their  com 
merce  was  crippled  by  the  high  tariff  party  in 
control  of  Congress;  and  while  the'r  condition  was 
vastly  better  than  it  had  been  under  Spanish  rule, 
it  was  not  such  as  a  Republic,  working  for  their 
good,  might  have  made  it.  The  acquisition  and 
conquest  of  the  islands  is  believed  by  many  in 
telligent  and  patriotic  persons  to  be  one  of  the 
darkest  blots  upon  American  history. 


AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION 

(WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  AT  BOSTON  THE 
STATUE  OF  ROBERT  GOULD  SHAW.  KILLED 
WHILE  STORMING  FORT  WAGNER,  JULY  18. 
1863,  AT  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  FIRST  EN 
LISTED  NEGRO  REGIMENT,  THE  FIFTY- 
FOURTH  MASSACHUSETTS) 
i 

BEFORE  the  living  bronze  Saint-Gaud  ens  made 
Most  fit  to  thrill  the  passer's  heart  with  awe. 
And  set  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 
To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 
This  bright  March  morn  I  stand 
And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the 

land ; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 
Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  negro  band, 
For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 
For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread. 
The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death  and 

shame 
Trembles   and    waits,  hearing   the   spring's 

great  name. 
And  by  her  pangs  these  resolute  ghosts  are 

stirred. 

ii 

Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  people 

go 

Heedless;  the  trees  upon  the  Common  show 
No  hint  of  green ;  but  to  my  listening  heart 
The  still  earth  doth  impart 
Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 
And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyes 
That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the  skies. 
The  ice  is  runnelled  on  the  little  pond ; 
A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees; 
The  air  is  touched  with  southland  spiceries, 
As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 
Of  pendent  mosses  where  the  live  oaks  grow 
Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 
Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 
Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 
Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

in 

Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  laugh  in  glee, 
Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 
Hill  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild  goose 
Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee; 
West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Saint-Marie, 
And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are  hung, 
And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  wilful,  young, 
Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 


AN  ODE   IN  TIME   OF  HESITATION 


647 


With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual  tongue 

Moulding  her  mighty  fates, 

The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal  sheen; 

And  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 

Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  outflung 

Ov*»r  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 

By  desert  people  immemorial 

On  Arizonan  mesas  shall  be  done 

Dim  rites  unto  the  thunder  and  the  sun; 

Nor  shall  the  primal  gods  lack  sacrifice 

More  splendid,  when  the  white  Sierras  call 

Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 

And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the 

year, 

Clashing  their  windy  cedars  as  for  shawms, 
Unrolling  rivers  clear 
For  flutter  of  broad  phylacteries; 
While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 
That  watch  old  sluggish  glaciers  downward 

creep 
To  fling  their  icebergs  thundering  from  the 

steep, 

And  Mariposa  through  the  purple  calms 
Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 
Where  East  and  West  are  met,  — 
A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set 
To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 
With  different  loss  and  gain: 
The  Lord  hath  sundered  them;  let  them  be 

sundered  yet. 

IV 

Alas!  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 

Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas,  — 

Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 

The  season's  half-awakened  ecstasies? 

Must  I  be  humble,  then. 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride  ? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculptured 

men; 
By  loving  much  the  land   for  which   they 

died 

I  would  be  justified. 
My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 
To  soothe  in  praise  of  her  its  passionate  mood 
And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 
Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 
On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 
I  would  remember  now 
My  country's  goodliness,   make  sweet  her 

name. 

Alas !  what  shade  art  thou 
Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 
Li  f test  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow. 
And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame? 


Lies !  lies !  It  cannot  be !  The  wars  we  wage 
Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 
By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 
We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 
The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 
And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war; 
Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 
Here  is  her  witness:  this,  her  perfect  son, 
This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 
Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-unshackled 

feet, 
Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory 

meet. 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done. 
That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit- 
whole. 

VI 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning  sand 
All  night  he  lay,  speaking  some  simple  word 
From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that 

heard. 

Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 
And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 
Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 
Against  the  breaking  day; 
And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 
Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice,  crystal-fine, 
Fulfilled  of  the  divine 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring- 
finger  stirred. 
Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion 

loomed 

Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light. 
Whence  now,  and    now,  infernal  flowerage 

bloomed, 
Bloomed,  burst,  and  scattered  down  its  deadly 

seed,  — 
They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the 

height, 

Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed ; 
And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 
By    hasty    and    contemptuous    hands    were 

thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 
The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust. 
Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 
In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 
To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 
Sweet  by  the  southern  sea, 
And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in  the 

rose : — 
The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that 

knew 


648 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


This  "mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 
Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 
Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 
Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 
And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 
By  all  men  held  divine, 
Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy 
sign. 


0  bitter,  bitter  shade! 
Wilt  thou  not  put  the  scorn 

And  instant  tragic  question  from  thine  eyes? 
Do  thy  dark  brows  yet  crave 
That  swift  and  angry  stave  — 
Unmeet  for  this  desirous  morn  — 
That  I  have  striven,  striven  to  evade  ? 
Gazing  on  him,  must  I  not  deem  they  err 
Whose  careless  lips  in  street  and  shop  aver 
As  common  tidings,  deeds  to  make  his  cheek 
Flush  from  the  bronze,  and  his  dead  throat  to 

speak? 

Surely  some  elder  singer  would  arise. 
Whose  harp  hath  leave  to  threaten  and  to 

mourn 

Above  this  people  when  they  go  astray. 
Is  Whitman,  the  strong  spirit,  overworn  ? 
Has  Whittier  put  his  yearning  wrath  away  ? 

1  will  not  and  I  dare  not  yet  believe! 
Though  furtively  the  sunlight  seems  to  grieve, 
And  the  spring-laden  breeze 

Out  of  the  gladdening  west  is  sinister 
With  sounds  of  nameless  battle  overseas; 
Though  when  we  turn  and  question  in  sus 
pense 

If  these  things  be  indeed  after  these  ways, 
And  what  things  are  to  follow  after  these, 
Our  fluent  men  of  place  and  consequence 
Fumble  and  fill  their  mouths  with  hollow 

phrase, 

Or  for  the  end-all  of  deep  arguments 
Intone  their  dull  commercial  liturgies  — 
I  dare  not  yet  believe!   My  ears  are  shut! 
I  will  not  hear  the  thin  satiric  praise 
And  muffled  laughter  of  our  enemies, 
Bidding  us  never  sheathe  our  valiant  sword 
Till  we  have  changed  our  birthright  for  a 

gourd 

Of  wild  pulse  stolen  from  a  barbarian's  hut; 
Showing  how  wise  it  is  to  cast  away 
The  symbols  of  our  spiritual  sway, 
That  so  our  hands  with  better  ease 
May  wield  the  driver's  whip  and  grasp  the 
jailer's  keys. 


Was  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law? 
This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and 

their  ruth  ? 

Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 
Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 
Soon  to  possess  the  mountain  winds  of  truth, 
And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 
Where  aye  before  God's  face  His  trumpets 

run  ? 

Or  have  we  but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 
And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 
Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set  apart?  — 
Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps 

are  fat  ? 
Some  gorger  in  the  sun  ?  Some  prowler  with 

the  bat? 

IX 

Ah  no! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 

We  are  our  fathers'  sons:  let  those  who  lead 

us  know! 

'T  was  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 
Came  up  the  tropic  wind,  "Now  help  us,  for 

we  die!" 

Then  Alabama  heard. 
And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho 
Shouted  a  burning  word ; 
Proud   state   with   proud   impassioned  state 

conferred, 

And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 
East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
Beautiful  armies.    Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood 

and  young 

Shed  on  the  awful  hill  slope  at  San  Juan, 
By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 
Who  might  have  tasted  girls'  love  and  been 

stung 

With  the  old  mystic  joys 
And    starry   griefs,    now    the   spring  nights 

come  on. 

But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous,  — 
We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us. 
Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain! 
Turn  not  their  new- world  victories  to  gain ! 
One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the 

bays 

Of  their  dear  praise, 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 
The  implacable  republic  will  require; 
With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 
Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night, 
But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  soon 
That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 


McKINLEY 


649 


Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity! 
For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 
Those  baffled  and  dislaurelled  ghosts 
Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 
Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead. 
The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 
Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 
With  ashes  of    the   hearth  shall  be  made 

white 
Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent: 


Then  on  your  guiltier  head 
Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 
Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain; 
For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 
We  shall  discern  the  right 
And  do  it,  tardily.  —  O  ye  who  lead. 
Take  heed ! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but   baseness   we 
will  smite. 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY. 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE   NEW   CENTURY 


No  country  in  the  world  entered  upon  the 
twentieth  century  with  brighter  prospects  of  peace, 
happiness,  and  prosperity  than  did  the  United 
States. 

A  TOAST  TO  OUR  NATIVE  LAND 

HUGE  and  alert,  irascible  yet  strong, 

Wre    make   our    fitful  way  'mid    right   and 

wrong. 

One  time  we  pour  out  millions  to  be  free, 
Then  rashly  sweep  an  empire  from  the  sea ! 
One  time  we  strike  the  shackles   from  the 

slaves. 

And  then,  quiescent,  we  are  ruled  by  knaves. 
Often  we  rudely  break  restraining  bars, 
And  confidently  reach  out  toward  the  stars. 

Yet  under  all  there  flows  a  hidden  stream 
Sprung  from  the  Rock  of  Freedom,  the  great 

dream 

Of  Washington  and  Franklin,  men  of  old 
Who  knew  that  freedom  is  not  bought  with 

gold. 

This  is  the  Land  we  love,  our  heritage. 
Strange  mixture  of  the  gross  and  fine,  yet 

sage 

And  full  of  promise,  —  destined  to  be  great. 
Drink  to  Our  Native  Land !  God  Bless  the 

State! 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


But  the  very  first  year,  a  bolt  from  the  blue 
fell  upon  her.  In  May,  1901,  a  great  industrial 
exposition,  known  as  the  "Pan-American,"  was 
opened  at  Buffalo,  New  York.  It  was  especially 
notable  for  its  electrical  display  and  came  to  be 
known  as  "The  Dream  City,"  or  ".The  City  of 
Light." 


BUFFALO 

119011 

A  TRANSIENT  city,  marvellously  fair. 
Humane,  harmonious,  yet  nobly  free, 
She  built  for  pure  delight  and  memory. 
At  her  command,  by  lake  and  garden  rare, 
Pylon  and  tower  majestic  rose  in  air, 
And  sculptured  forms  of  grace  and  sym 
metry. 

Then  came  a  thought  of  God,  and,  rever 
ently,  — 
"Let  there  be  Light!"  she  said;  and  Light 

was  there. 

O  miracle  of  splendor!  Who  could  know 
That  Crime,  insensate,  egoist  and  blind. 

Destructive,  causeless,  caring  but  to  smite. 
Would  in  its  dull  Cimmerian  gropings  find 
A  sudden  way  to  fill  those  courts  with  woe. 
And  swallow  up  that  radiance  in  night  ? 
FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES. 

September  5  was  set  aside  as  President's  Day. 
The  attendance  was  very  large,  and  President 
William  McKinley  spoke  to  an  audience  of  thirty 
thousand  people.  The  next  afternoon  a  reception 
was  held,  at  which  all  were  invited  to  pass  in  line 
and  shake  hands  with  the  President.  In  the  line 
was  a  man  whose  right  hand  was  bandaged  with  a 
handkerchief.  The  handkerchief  concealed  a  re 
volver.  As  the  President  stretched  out  his  hand, 
the  assassin  fired  twice,  one  bullet  penetrating  the 
President's  abdomen. 

McKINLEY 

[September  6,  1901] 

'T  is  not  the  President  alone 
Who,  stricken  by  that  bullet,  fell; 


650 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


The  assassin's  shot  that  laid  him  prone 
Pierced  a  great  nation's  heart  as  well; 

And  when  the  baleful  tidings  sped 
From  lip  to  lip  throughout  the  crowd, 

Then,  as  they  deemed  their  ruler  dead, 
'T  was  Liberty  that  cried  aloud. 

Ay,  Liberty !  for  where  the  foam 

Of  oceans  twain  marks  out  the  coast 
'T  is  there,  in  Freedom's  very  home. 

That  anarchy  has  maimed  its  host; 
There  't  is  that  it  has  turned  to  bite 

The  hand  that  fed  it;  there  repaid 
A  country's  welcome  with  black  spite; 

There,  Judas-like,  that  land  betrayed. 

For  't  is  no  despot  that 's  laid  low. 

But  a  free  nation's  chosen  chief; 
A  free  man,  stricken  by  a  blow 

Base,  dastardly,  past  all  belief. 
And  Tyranny  exulting  hears 

The  tidings  flashed  across  the  sea; 
While  stern  Repression  hugs  her  fears, 

And  mouths  them  in  a  harsh  decree. 

Meanwhile  the  cloud,  though  black  as  death, 

Is  lined  with  hopes,  hopes  light  as  life, 
And  Liberty  that,  scant  of  breath. 

Had  watched  the  issue  of  the  strife, 
Fills  the  glad  air  with  grateful  cries 

To  find  the  sun  no  more  obscured. 
And  with  new  yearnings  in  her  eyes 

Climbs  to  her  watch-tower  —  reassured. 
London  Truth. 


Surgical  aid  was  at  hand.  It  was  found  that 
the  bullet  had  passed  through  the  stomach;  both 
wounds  were  sewed  up,  and  five  days  later  the 
President  was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  The 
next  day,  he  showed  signs  of  a  relapse,  and  sank 
steadily  until  death  came  early  on  the  morning  of 
Saturday,  September  14. 


FAITHFUL  UNTO  DEATH 

[September  14,  1901] 

His  work  is  done,  his  toil  is  o'er; 
A  martyr  for  our  land  he  fell  — 
The  land  he  loved,  that  loved  him  well; 

Honor  his  name  for  evermore! 

Let  all  the  world  its  tribute  pay. 

For  glorious  shall  be  his  renown ; 
Though  duty's  was  his  only  crown, 

Yet  duty's  path  is  glory's  way. 


For  he  was  great  without  pretence; 

A  man  of  whom  none  whispered  shame, 
A  man  who  knew  nor  guile  nor  blame; 

Good  in  his  every  influence. 

On  battle-field,  in  council-hall, 

Long  years  with  sterling  service  rife 
He  gave  us,  and  at  last  his  life  — 

Still  unafraid  at  duty's  call. 

Let  the  last  solemn  pageant  move, 
The  nation's  grief  to  consecrate 
To  him  struck  down  by  maniac  hate 

Amid  a  mighty  nation's  love; 

And  though  the  thought  it  solace  gives, 
Beside  the  martyr's  grave  to-day 
We  feel  't  is  almost  hard  to  say: 

"God  reigns  and  the  Republic  lives!"        • 
RICHARD  HANDFIELD  TITHERINGTON. 


THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  TREES 

GENTLE  and  generous,  brave-hearted,  kind, 
And  full  of  love  and  trust  was  he,  our  chief; 
He  never  harmed  a  soul!    Oh,  dull  and 

blind 

And  cruel,  the  hand  that  smote,  beyond  be 
lief! 
Strike  him  ?  It  could  not  be!  Soon  should  we 

find 

'T  was  but  a  torturing  dream  —  our  sud 
den  grief! 
Then  sobs  and  wailings  down  the  northern 

wind 
Like  the  wild  voice  of  shipwreck  from  a 

reef! 
By  false  hope  lulled   (his  courage  gave  us 

hope!) 

By  day,  by  night  we  watched,  —  until  un 
furled 

At  last  the  word  of  fate !  —  Our  memories 

Cherish  one  tender  thought  in  their  sad  scope : 

He,  looking  from  the  window  on  this  world, 

Found  comfort  in  the  moving  green  of  trees. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


OUTWARD  BOUND 

FAREWELL  !  for  now  a  stormy  morn  and  dark 
The  hour  of  greeting  and  of  parting  brings; 
Already  on  the  rising  wind  yon  bark 
Spreads  her  impatient  wings. 


DARIEN 


651 


Too  hasty  keel,  a  little  while  delay! 

A  moment  tarry,  O  thou  hurrying  dawn ! 

For  long  and  sad  will  be  the  mourners'  day 

When  their  beloved  is  gone. 

But  vain  the  hands  that  beckon  from  the  shore : 

Alike  our  passion  and  our  grief  are  vain. 
Behind  him  lies  our  little  world:  before 
The  illimitable  main. 

Yet,  none  the  less,  about  his  moving  bed 

Immortal  eyes  a  tireless  vigil  keep  — 
An  angel  at  the  feet  and  at  the  head 
Guard  his  untroubled  sleep. 

Two  nations  bowed  above  a  common  bier, 
Made  one  forever  by  a  martyred  son  — 
One  in  their  agony  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  in  their  sorrow  one. 

And  thou,  lone  traveller,  of  a  waste  so  wide, 
The  uncharted  seas  that  all  must  pass  in  turn, 
May  the  same  star  that  was  so  long  thy  guide 
O'er  thy  last  voyage  burn. 

No  eye  can  reach  where  through  yon  sombre 

veil 

That  bark  to  its  eternal  haven  fares; 
No  earthly  breezes  swell  its  shadowy  sail: 
Only  our  love  and  prayers. 

EDWARD  SYDNEY  TTLEE. 


Theodore  Roosevelt,  Vice-President,  succeeded 
to  the  Presidency.  The  greatest  project  which  the 
new  administration  undertook  was  the  construc 
tion  of  a  ship  canal  across  the  Isthmus  of  Panama. 
This  enterprise  had  been  agitated  as  early  as  1826, 
and  in  1879  a  French  company  under  Ferdinand 
de  Lesseps  had  secured  a  concession  from  Colom 
bia  and  started  to  work.  At  the  end  of  ten  years, 
the  company  had  exhausted  its  resources  and 
work  ceased. 

PANAMA 

HERE  the  oceans  twain  have  waited 
All  the  ages  to  be  mated,  — 
Waited  long  and  waited  vainly, 
Though  the  script  was  written  plainly: 
"This,  the  portal  of  the  sea, 
Opes  for  him  who  holds  the  key; 
Here  the  empire  of  the  earth 
Waits  in  patience  for  its  birth." 

But  the  Spanish  monarch,  dimly 
Seeing  little,  answered  grimly: 


"North  and  South  the  land  is  Spain's; 
As  God  gave  it,  it  remains. 
He  who  seeks  to  break  the  tie, 
By  mine  honor,  he  shall  die!" 

So  the  centuries  rolled  on, 
And  the  gift  of  great  Colon, 
Like  a  spendthrift's  heritage, 
Dwindled  slowly,  age  by  age, 
Till  the  flag  of  red  and  gold 
Fell  from  hands  unnerved  and  old, 
And  the  granite-pillared  gate 
Waited  still  the  key  of  fate. 

Who  shall  hold  that  magic  key 

But  the  child  of  destiny, 

In  whose  veins  has  mingled  long 

All  the  best  blood  of  the  strong  ? 

He  who  takes  his  place  by  grace 

Of  no  single  tribe  or  race, 

But  by  many  a  rich  bequest 

From  the  bravest  and  the  best. 

Sentinel  of  duty,  here 

Must  he  guard  a  hemisphere. 

Let  the  old  world  keep  its  ways; 
Naught  to  him  its  blame  or  praise; 
Naught  its  greed,  or  hate,  or  fear; 
For  all  swords  be  sheathed  here. 

Yea,  the  gateway  shall  be  free 
Unto  all,  from  sea  to  sea; 
And  no  fratricidal  slaughter 
Shall  defile  its  sacred  water; 
But  —  the  hand  that  ope'd  the  gate  shall 
forever  hold  the  key! 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

The  United  States  was  naturally  looked  to  to 
carry  on  the  project.  The  matter  was  brought  be 
fore  Congress,  and  in  1902  the  French  company 
was  bought  out  for  the  sum  of  forty  million  dol 
lars.  The  Republic  of  Panama  was  organized, 
when  Colombia  hesitated  over  the  concession,  and 
control  of  the  canal  route  was  thus  secured. 

DARIEN 

A.D.  1513-A.D.  1901 

[The  American  Senate  has  ratified  the  isthmus 
treaty.  —  WASHINGTON  TELEGRAM.) 

"  SILENT  upon  a  peak  in  Darien," 

The  Spanish  steel  red  in  his  conquering 

hand. 
While  golden,  green  and  gracious  the  vast 

land 


652 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Of  that  new  world  comes  sudden  into  ken  — 
Stands  Nunez  da  Balboa.   North  and  south 
He  sees  at  last  the  full  Pacific  roll 
In  blue  and  silver  on  each  shelf  and  shoal, 
And  the  white  bar  of  the  broad  river's  mouth, 
And  the  long,  ranked  palm-trees.  "Queen  of 

Heaven,"  he  cried, 
"To-day  thou  giv'st  me  this  for  all  my 

pain, 
And    I    the  glorious  guerdon    give   to 

Spain, 

A  new  earth  and  new  sea  to  be  her  pride, 
War  ground  and  treasure-house."  And  while 

he  spoke 

The  world's  heart  knew  a  mightier  dawn  was 
broke. 

"Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien"  — 

Four  hundred  years  being  fled,  a  Greater 

stood 
On  that  same  height;  and  did  behold  the 

flood 

Of  blue  waves  leaping ;  Mother  of  all  men ! 
Wise  Nature!    And  she  spake,  "The  gift  I 

gave 

To  Nunez  da  Balboa  could  not  keep 
Spain  from  her  sins;  now  must  the  ages 

sweep 

To  larger  legend,  tho'  her  own  was  brave, 
yere  on  this  ridge  I  do  foresee  fresh  birth. 
That  which  departed  shall  bring  side  by 

side, 

The  sea  shall  sever  what  hills  did  divide; 
Shall  link  in  love."    And  there  was  joy  on 

earth; 

Whilst  England  and  Columbia,  quitting  fear, 
Kissed  —  and  let  in  the  eager  waters  there. 
EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

PANAMA 

HOME  OF  THE  DOVE-PLANT  OB  HOLT   GHOST 
FLOWER 


WHAT  time  the  Lord  drew  back  the  sea 
And  gave  thee  room,  slight  Panama, 
"I  will  not  have  thee  great,"  said  he, 
"  But  thou  shalt  bear  the  slender  key 
Of  both  the  gates  I  builded  me, 
And  all  the  great  shall  come  to  thee 
For  leave  to  pass,  O  Panama!" 

(Flower  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  white  dove, 
Breathe  sweetness  where  he  wrought  in 
love.) 


His  oceans  call  across  the  land : 

"How  long,  how  long,  fair  Panama, 
Wilt  thou  the  shock  of  tides  withstand, 
Nor  heed  us  sobbing  by  the  strand  ? 
Set  wide  thy  gates  on  either  hand, 
That  we  may  search  through  saltless  sand  — 
May  clasp  and  kiss,  O  Panama!" 
(Flower  of  the  deep-embosomed  dove, 
So  should  his  mighty  nations  love.) 


Out-peal  his  holy  temple-clocks: 
It  is  thine  hour,  glad  Panama. 
Now  shall  thy  key  undo  the  locks; 
The  strong  shall  cleave  thy  sunken  rocks; 
Swung  loose  and  floating  from  their  docks, 
The  world's  white  fleets  shall  come  in  flocks 
To  thread  thy  straits,  O  Panama! 
(Flower  of  the  tropics,  snowy  dove, 
Forbid,  unless  they  come  in  love.) 


How  beautiful  is  thy  demesne! 

Search  out  thy  wealth,  proud  Panama: 
Thy  gold,  thy  pearls  of  silver  sheen, 
Thy  fruitful  palms,  thy  thickets  green; 
Load  thou  the  ships  that  ride  between; 
Attire  thee  as  becomes  a  queen: 
The  great  ones  greet  thee,  Panama! 
(Flower  of  the  white  and  peaceful  dove, 
Let  all  men  pass  who  come  in  love.) 
AMANDA  T.  JONES. 

A  working  organization  was  perfected,  improved 
machinery  got  into  place,  and  when,  in  the  fall  of 
1906,  President  Roosevelt  visited  the  Isthmus,  he 
found  the  dirt  flying  in  a  most  satisfactory  way. 
The  canal  was  finally  opened  to  commerce  in  April, 
1916. 


A  SONG  OF   PANAMA 

[1906] 

"CHUFF!  chuff!  chuff!"    An'  a  mountain- 
bluff 

Is  moved  by  the  shovel's  song; 
"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff ! "  Oh,  the  grade  is  rough 

A  liftin'  the  landscape  along! 

We  are  ants  upon  a  mountain,  but  we're 

leavin'  of  our  dent, 
An'  our  teeth-marks  bitin'  scenery  they  will 

show  the  way  we  went; 


HYMN   OF  THE  WEST 


653 


We're  a  liftin'  half  creation,  an'  we're  changin' 

it  around, 
Just  to  suit  our  playful  purpose  when  we're 

diggin'  in  the  ground. 

"Chuff!  chuff!   chuff!"   Oh,  the  grade   is 
rough, 

An'  the  way  to  the  sea  is  long; 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  the  engines  puff 

In  tune  to  the  shovel's  song! 

We're  a  shiftin*  miles  like  inches,  and  we 

grab  a  forest  here 
Just  to  switch  it  over  yonder  so's  to  leave 

an  angle  clear; 
We  're  a  pushm'  leagues  o'  swamps  aside  so's 

we  can  hurry  by  — 
An'  if  we  had  to  do  it  we  would  probably 

switch  the  sky ! 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  Oh,  it's  hard  enough 
When  you  're  changin'  a  job  gone  wrong ; 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  there's  no  rebuff 
To  the  shovel  a  singin'  its  song! 

You  hears  it  in  the  mornin*  an'  you  hears  it 

late  at  night  — • 
It's  our  battery  keepin'  action  with  support 

o'  dynamite; 
Oh,  you  gets  it  for  your  dinner,  an'  the  scenery 

skips  along 
In  a  movin'  panorama  to  the  chargin'  shovel's 

song! 

"Chuff!    chuff!    chuff!"    an'   it   grabs    the 
scruff 

Of  a  hill  an'  boosts  it  along; 
"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff !"  Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

But  it  gives  to  the  shovel's  song! 

This  is  a  fight  that's  fightin',  an'  the  battle's 

to  the  death; 
There  ain't  no  stoppin'  here  to  rest  or  even 

catch  your  breath; 
You  ain't  no  noble  hero,  an'  you  leave  no 

gallant  name  — 
You're  a  fightin'  Nature's  army,  an'  it  ain't 

no  easy  game! 

"  Chuff !  chuff !  chuff ! "  Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 
An'  the  way  to  the  end  is  long, 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  the  engines  puff 
As  we  lift  the  landscape  along ! 

ALFRED  DAMON  RUNYON. 


In  1904  an  industrial  exposition  to  commemo 
rate  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  pur 
chase  of  Louisiana  from  France  was  heki  at  St. 
Louis,  and  was  attended  by  millions  of  people. 
The  official  hymn  was  written  by  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman,  and  was  sung  on  the  opening  day  by  a 
chorus  of  five  hundred  voices. 

HYMN  OF  THE  WEST 

O  THOU,  whose  glorious  orbs  on  high 

Engird  the  earth  with  splendor  round, 
From  out  thy  secret  place  draw  nigh 
The  courts  and  temples  of  this  ground ; 
Eternal  Light, 
Fill  with  thy  might 

These  domes  that  in  thy  purpose  grew, 
And  lift  a  nation's  heart  anew ! 

Illumine  Thou  each  pathway  here, 

To  show  the  marvels  God  hath  wrought! 
Since  first  thy  people's  chief  and  seer 
Looked  up  with  that  prophetic  thought, 
Bade  Time  unroll 
The  fateful  scroll, 
And  empire  unto  Freedom  gav« 
From  cloudland  height  to  tropic  wave. 

Poured  through  the  gateways  of  the  North 

Thy  mighty  rivers  join  their  tide. 
And,  on  the  wings  of  morn  sent  forth, 
Their  mists  the  far-off  peaks  divide. 
By  Thee  unsealed, 
The  mountains  yield 
Ores  that  the  wealth  of  Ophir  shame, 
And  gems  enwrought  of  seven-hued  flame 

Lo,  through  what  years  the  soil  hath  lain 

At  thine  own  time  to  give  increase  — 
The  greater  and  the  lesser  grain, 
The  ripening  boll,  the  myriad  fleece! 
Thy  creatures  graze 
Appointed  ways; 

League  after  league  across  the  land 
The  ceaseless  herds  obey  thy  hand. 

Thou,  whose  high  archways  shine  most  clear 

Above  the  plenteous  Western  plain, 
Thine  ancient  tribes  from  round  the  sphere 
To  breathe  its  quickening  air  are  fain: 
And  smiles  the  sun 
To  see  made  one 
Their  brood  throughout  Earth's  greenest 

space, 
Land  of  the  new  and  lordlier  race! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


654 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Particularly  noteworthy  was  the  growing  senti 
ment  of  friendship  between  England  and  America. 
Not  so  many  years  before,  the  two  countries  had 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  war,  but  all  such  clouds 
had  long  since  been  swept  away. 


BRITANNIA  TO  COLUMBIA 

WHAT  is  the  voice  I  hear 

On  the  wind  of  the  Western  Sea  ? 
Sentinel,  listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 

And  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 
"'Tis  a  proud,  free  people  calling  aloud  to 
a  people  proud  and  free. 

"And  it  says  to  them,  'Kinsmen,  hail! 

We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  wornout  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 
And  our  friendship  last  long  as  love  doth  last, 
and  be  stronger  than  death  is  strong ! " ' 

Answer  them,  sons  of  the  selfsame  race, 

And  blood  of  the  selfsame  clan. 
Let  us  speak  with  each  other,  face  to  face, 

And  answer  as  man  to  man, 
And  loyally  love  and  trust  each  other  as  none 
but  free  men  can. 

Now  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 

Shamrock,  thistle,  and  rose, 
And  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with 

these, 

A  message  to  friends  and  foes, 
Wherever  the  sails  of  peace  are  seen  and 
wherever  the  war  wind  blows. 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 

For  wherever  we  come,  we  twain, 
The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and 

quake 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain, 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land  and 
we  are  lords  of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  voice  on  the  bluff  March 

gale, 

"We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  wornout  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 
And  our  friendship  shall  last  long  as  love  doth 
last  and   be  stronger  than  death  is 
strong." 

ALFRED  AUSTIN. 


Within  the  United  States  a  similar  change  was 
taking  place.  The  old  sectional  lines  of  North 
and  South  were  being  forgotten,  as  a  new  genera 
tion  arose,  and  the  proposal  to  return  to  the  South 
her  captured  battle  flags  —  a  proposal  which,  a 
few  years  before,  had  met  with  frenzied  protest 
from  fire-alarm  patriots  —  received  general  and 
hearty  approval. 


THOSE  REBEL  FLAGS 

DISCUSSED   BT   "ONE  OF  THE  YANKS " 

SHALL  we  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunt 
ing, 

In  token,  from  Blue  to  the  Gray, 
That  "  Brothers-in-blood  "  and  "  Good  Hunt 
ing" 

Shall  be  our  new  watchword  to-day  ? 
In  olden  times  knights  held  it  knightly 
To  return  to  brave  foemen  the  sword ; 
Will  the  Stars  and   the  Stripes  gleam  less 

brightly 
If  the  old  Rebel  flags  are  restored  ? 

Call  it  sentiment,  call  it  misguided 

To  fight  to  the  death  for  "a  rag"; 
Yet,  trailed  in  the  dust,  derided, 

The  true  soldier  still  loves  his  flag! 
Does  love  die,  and  must  honor  perish 

When  colors  and  causes  are  lost? 
Lives  the  soldier  who  ceases  to  cherish 

The  blood-stains  and  valor  they  cost  ? 

Our  battle-fields,  safe  in  the  keeping 

Of  Nature's  kind,  fostering  care, 
Are  blooming,  — our  heroes  are  sleeping, — 

And  peace  broods  perennial  there. 
All  over  our  land  rings  the  story 

Of  loyalty,  fervent  and  true: 
"One  flag,"  and  that  flag  is  "Old  Glory," 

Alike  for  the  Gray  and  the  Blue. 

Why  cling  to  those  moth-eaten  banners  ? 

What  glory  or  honor  to  gain 
While  the  nation  is  shouting  hosannas, 

Uniting  her  sons  to  fight  Spain  ? 
Time  is  ripe,  and  the  harvest  worth  reap 
ing, 

Send  the  Johnnies  their  flags  f.  o.  b., 
Address  to  the  care  and  safe-keeping 

Of  that  loyal  "old  Reb,"  Fitzhugh  Lee! 

Yes,  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunting, 
With  greetings  from  Blue  to  the  Gray; 


ARIZONA 


655 


We    are    " Brothers-in-blood,"    and    "Good 

Hunting" 
Is  America's  watchword  to-day. 

JOHN  H.  JEWETT. 


On  February  24,  1905,  Congress  directed  that 
the  flags  be  returned,  and  they  now  rest  in  the 
capitols  of  the  various  Southern  States. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLAGS 

ON   THEIR   RETURN   TO   THE  STATES   OF   THE 
CONFEDERACY 

(February  24,  1905] 

WE  loved  the  wild  clamor  of  battle, 
The  crash  of  the  musketry's  rattle, 

The  bugle  and  drum: 

We  have  drooped  in  the  dust,  long  and  lonely; 
The  blades  that  flashed  joy  are  rust  only, 

The  far-rolling  war  music  dumb. 

God  rest  the  true  souls  in  death  lying, 
For  whom  overhead  proudly  flying 

We  challenged  the  foe. 
The  storm  of  the  charge  we  have  breasted, 
On  the  hearts  of  our  dead  we  have  rested, 

In  the  pride  of  a  day,  long  ago. 

Ah,  surely  the  good  of  God's  making 
Shall  answer  both  those  past  awaking 

And  life's  cry  of  pain; 
But  we  nevermore  shall  be  tossing 
On  surges  of  battle  where  crossing 

The  swift-flying  death  bearers  rain. 

Again  in  the  wind  we  are  streaming, 
Again  with  the  war  lust  are  dreaming 

The  call  of  the  shell. 
What  gray  heads  look  up  at  us  sadly? 
Are  these  the  stern  troopers  who  madly 

Rode  straight  at  the  battery's  hell  ? 

Nay,  more  than  the  living  have  found  us. 
Pale  spectres  of  battle  around  us; 

The  gray  line  is  dressed. 
Ye  hear  not,  but  they  who  are  bringing 
Your  symbols  of  honor  are  singing 

The  song  of  death's  bivouac  rest. 

Blow  forth  on  the  south  wind  to  greet  us, 
O  star  flag!  once  eager  to  meet  us 
When  war  lines  were  set. 


Go  carry  to  far  fields  of  glory 
The  soul-stirring  thrill  of  the  story, 
Of  days  when  in  anger  we  met. 

Ah,  well  that  we  hung  in  the  churches 
In  quiet,  where  God  the  heart  searches, 

That  under  us  met 

Men  heard  through  the  murmur  of  praying 
The  voice  of  the  torn  banners  saying, 

"Forgive,  but  ah,  never  forget." 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


The  territories  of  the  West  were  clamoring  for 
admission  to  statehood,  and  finally,  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1906,  Oklahoma  and  the  Indian  Territory 
were  admitted  as  one  state.  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico  were  offered  joint  statehood,  but  the 
former  refused  to  link  her  destinies  with  her  sister 
territory. 

ARIZONA 

No  beggar  she  in  the  mighty  hall  where  her 
bay-crowned  sisters  wait, 

No  empty-handed  pleader  for  the  right  of  a 
free-born  state, 

No  child,  with  a  child's  insistence,  demand 
ing  a  gilded  toy, 

But  a  fair-browed,  queenly  woman,  strong 
to  create  or  destroy  — 

Wise  for  the  need  of  the  sons  she  has  bred  in 
the  school  where  weaklings  fail, 

Where  cunning  is  less  than  manhood,  and 
deeds,  not  words,  avail  — 

With  the  high,  unswerving  purpose  that  mea 
sures  and  overcomes. 

And  the  faith  in  the  Farthest  Vision  that 
builded  her  hard-won  homes. 

Link  her,  in  her  clean-proved  fitness,  in  her 

right  to  stand  alone  — 
Secure  for  whatever  future  in  the  strength 

that  her  past  has  won  — 
Link  her,  in  her  morning  beauty,  with  an 
other,  however  fair  ? 
And  open  your  jealous  portal  and  bid  her 

enter  there 
With  shackles  on  wrist  and  ankle,  and  dust 

on  her  stately  head, 
And  her  proud  eyes  dim  with  weeping?  No! 

Bar  your  doors  instead 
And  seal  them  fast  forever!  but  let  her  go 

her  way  — 
Uncrowned  if  you  will,  but  unshackled,  to 

wait  for  a  larger  day. 


656 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Ay!  Let  her  go  bare-handed,  bound  with 

no  grudging  gift, 

Back  to  her  own  free  spaces  where  her  rock- 
ribbed  mountains  lift 
Their  walls  like  a  sheltering  fortress  —  back 

to  her  house  and  blood. 
And  we  of  her  blood  will  go  our  way  and 

reckon  your  judgment  good. 
We  will  wait  outside  your  sullen  door  till  the 

stars  you  wear  grow  dim 
As  the  pale  dawn-stars  that  swim  and  fade 

o'er  our  mighty  Canon's  rim. 
We  will  lift  no  hand  for  the  bays  ye  wear,  nor 

covet  your  robes  of  state  — 
But  ah!  by  the  skies  above  us  all,  we  will 

shame  ye  while  we  wait ! 

We  will  make  ye  the  mold  of  an  empire  here 

in  the  land  ye  scorn, 
Whi  le  ye  d  rowse  and  d  ream  i  n  your  well-housed 

ease  that  States  at  your  nod  are  born. 
Ye  have  blotted  your  own  beginnings,  and 

taught  your  sons  to  forget 
That  ye  did  not  spring  fat-fed  and  old  from 

the  powers  that  bear  and  beget. 
But  the  while  ye  follow  your  smooth-made 

roads  to  a  fireside  safe  of  fears, 
Shall  come  a  voice  from  a  land  still  young,  to 

sing  in  your  age-dulled  ears 
The  hero  song  of  a  strife  as  fine  as  your  fathers' 

fathers  knew, 
When  they  dared  the  rivers  of  unmapped  wilds 

at  the  will  of  a  bark  canoe  — 

The  song  of  the  deed  in  the  doing,  of  the  work 

still  hot  from  the  hand; 
Of  the  yoke  of  man  laid  friendly-wise  on  the 

neck  of  a  tameless  land. 
While  your  merchandise  is  weighing,  we  will 

bit  and  bridle  and  rein 
The  floods  of  the  storm-rocked  mountains  and 

lead  them  down  to  the  plain ; 
And  the  foam-ribbed,  dark-hued  waters,  tired 

from  that  mighty  race, 
Shall  lie  at  the  feet  of  palm  and  vine  and  know 

their  appointed  place; 
And  out  of  that  subtle  union,  desert  and 

mountain-flood, 
Shall  be  homes  for  a  nation's  choosing,  where 

no  home  else  had  stood. 

We  will  match  the  gold  of  your  minting,  with 
its  mint-stamp  dulled  and  marred 

By  the  tears  and  blood  that  have  stained  it  and 
the  hands  that  have  clutched  too  hard, 


With  the  gold  that  no  man  has  lied  for  —  the 

gold  no  woman  has  made 
The  price  of  her  truth  and  honor,  plying  a 

shameless  trade  — 
The   clean,    pure    gold    of   the    mountains, 

straight  from  the  strong,  dark  earth, 
With  no  tang  or  taint  upon  it  from  the  hour 

of  its  primal  birth. 
The  trick  of  the  money-changer,  shifting  his 

coins  as  he  wills, 
Ye  may  keep  —  no  Christ  was  bartered  for 

the  wealth  of  our  lavish  hills. 

"Yet  we  are  a  little  people — too  weak  for  the 

cares  of  state ! " 
Let  us  go  our  way !   WThen  ye  look  again,  ye 

shall  find  us,  mayhap,  too  great. 
Cities  we  lack  —  and  gutters  where  children 

snatch  for  bread ; 

Numbers  —  and  hordes  of  starvelings,  toil 
ing  but  never  fed. 
Spare  pains  that  would  make  us  greater  in  the 

pattern  that  ye  have  set; 
We  hold  to  the  larger  measure  of  the  men  that 

ye  forget  — 
The  men  who,   from  trackless  forests  and 

prairies  lone  and  far, 
Hewed  out  the  land  where  ye  sit  at  ease  and 

grudge  us  our  fair-won  star. 

"There  yet  be  men,  my  masters,"  though  the 

net  that  the  trickster  flings 
Lies  wide  on  the  land  to  its  bitter  shame,  and 

his  cunning  parleyings 
Have  deafened  the  ears  of  Justice,  that  was 

blind  and  slow  of  old. 
Yet  time,  the  last  Great  Judge,  is  not  bought, 

or  bribed,  or  sold; 
And  Time  and  the  Race  shall  judge  us  —  not 

a  league  of  trafficking  men, 
Selling  the  trust  of  the  people,  to  barter   it 

back  again; 
Palming  the  lives  of  millions  as  a  handful  of 

easy  coin, 
With  a  single  heart  to  the  narrow  verge  where 

craft  and  statecraft  join. 

SHARLOT  M.  HALL. 


On  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  April  18,  1906, 
an  appalling  calamity  visited  California,  and 
especially  the  great  city  of  San  Francisco.  At  a 
few  minutes  past  five  o'clock  a  severe  earthquake 
shock  desolated  the  cities  of  the  central  coast 
region,  snuffed  out  hundreds  of  lives,  and  destroyed 
millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  property. 


TO   SAN  FRANCISCO 


657 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
[April  18,  1906] 

SUCH  darkness  as  when  Jesus  died ! 

Then  sudden  dawn  drave  all  before. 
Two  wee  brown  tomtits,  terrified, 

Flashed  through  my  open  cottage  door; 
Then  instant  out  and  off  again 
And  left  a  stillness  like  to  pain  — 
Such  stillness,  darkness,  sudden  dawn 
I  never  knew  or  looked  upon ! 

This  ardent,  Occidental  dawn 

Dashed  San  Francisco's  streets  with  gold, 
Just  gold  and  gold  to  walk  upon, 

As  he  of  Patmos  sang  of  old. 
And  still,  so  still,  her  streets,  her  steeps, 
As  when  some  great  soul  silent  weeps; 
And  oh,  that  gold,  that  gold  that  lay 
Beyond,  above  the  tarn,  brown  bay! 

And  then  a  bolt,  a  jolt,  a  chill, 

And  Mother  Earth  seemed  as  afraid; 
Then  instant  all  again  was  still. 

Save  that  my  cattle  from  the  shade 
Where  they  had  sought  firm,  rooted  clay, 
Came  forth  loud  lowing,  glad  and  gay, 
Knee-deep  in  grasses  to  rejoice 
That  all  was  well,  with  trumpet  voice. 

Not  so  yon  city  —  darkness,  dust, 
Then  martial  men  in  swift  array. 

Then  smoke,  then  flames,  then  great  guns 

thrust 
To  heaven,  as  if  pots  of  clay  — 

Cathedral,  temple,  palace,  tower  — 

An  hundred  wars  in  one  wild  hour! 

And  still  the  smoke,  the  flame,  the  guns 

The  piteous  wail  of  little  ones ! 

The  mad  flame  climbed  the  costly  steep, 
But  man,  defiant,  climbed  the  flame. 

What  battles  where  the  torn  clouds  keep! 
What  deeds  of  glory  in  God's  name! 

What  sons  of  giants  —  giants,  yea  — 

Or  beardless  lad  or  veteran  gray. 

Not  Marathon  nor  Waterloo 

Knew  men  so  daring,  dauntless,  true. 

Three  days,  three  nights,  three  fearful  days 
Of  death,  of  flame,  of  dynamite, 

Of  God's  house  thrown  a  thousand  ways; 
Blown  east  by  day,  blown  west  by  night  — 


By  night?  There  was  no  night.   Nay,  nay, 
The  ghoulish  flame  lit  nights  that  lay 
Crouched  down  between  this  first,  last  day. 
I  say  those  nights  were  burned  away ! 

And  jealousies  were  burned  away, 

And  burned  were  city  rivalries, 
Till  all,  white  crescenting  the  bay, 

Were  one  harmonious  hive  of  bees. 
Behold  the  bravest  battle  won ! 
The  City  Beautiful  begun : 
One  solid  San  Francisco,  one, 
The  fairest  sight  beneath  the  sun. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

In  San  Francisco,  fire  followed  the  shock;  the 
water-mains  had  been  broken,  and  the  flames 
were  soon  utterly  beyond  control,  and  raged  for 
two  days,  destroying  the  business  and  principal 
residence  portions  of  the  city  —  an  area  of  four 
square  miles.  The  loss  of  life  reached  a  thousand, 
the  property  loss  three  hundred  million  dollars. 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

WHO  now  dare  longer  trust  thy  mother  hand  ? 

So  like  thee  thou  hadst  not  another  child ; 

The  favorite  flower  of  all  thy  Western  sand, 

She  looked  up,  Nature,  in  thy  face  and 

smiled, 
Trustful  of  thee,  all-happy  in  thy  care. 

She  was  thine  own,  not  to  be  lured  away 
Down  joyless  paths  of  men.  Happy  as  fair, 

Held  to  thy  heart  —  that  was  she  yesterday. 
To-day  the  sea  is  sobbing  her  sweet  name; 

She  cannot  answer — she  that  loved  thee  best, 
That  clung  to  thee  till  Hell's  own  shock  and 

flame 

Wrenched  her,  swept  her,  from  thy  forget 
ting  breast. 

Day's  darling,  playmate  of  thy  wind  and  sun  — 
Mother,  what  hast  thou  done,  what  hast  thou 
done! 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

The  whole  country  rushed  to  the  relief  of  the 
stricken  state;  the  Californians  met  their  losses 
bravely,  and  started  at  once  to  build  a  greater 
San  Francisco. 

TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

IF  we  dreamed  that  we  loved  Her  aforetime, 
't  was  the  ghost  of  a  dream ;  for  I  vow 

By  the  splendor  of  God  in  the  highest,  we 
never  have  loved  Her  till  now. 


658 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


When  Love  bears  the  trumpet  of  Honor,  oh, 

highest  and  clearest  he  calls, 
With  the  light  of  the  flaming  of  towers,  and 

the  sound  of  the  rending  of  walls. 
When  Love  wears  the  purple  of  Sorrow,  and 

kneels  at  the  altar  of  Grief, 
Of  the  flowers  that  spring  in  his  footsteps,  the 

white  flower  of  Service  is  chief. 
And  as  snow  on  the  snow  of  Her  bosom,  as  a 

star  in  the  night  of  Her  hair, 
We  bring  to  our  Mother  such  token  as  the 

time  and  the  elements  spare. 

If  we  dreamed  that  we  loved  Her  aforetime, 

adoring  we  kneel  to  Her  now, 
When  the  golden  fruit  of  the  ages  falls,  swept 

by  the  wind  from  the  bough. 
The  beautiful  dwelling  is  shattered,  wherein, 

as  a  queen  at  the  feast, 
In  gems  of  the  barbaric  tropics  and  silks  of 

the  ultimate  East, 
Our  Mother  sat  throned  and  triumphant, 

with  the  wise  and  the  great  in  their 

day. 
They  were  captains,  and  princes,  and  rulers ; 

but  She,  She  was  greater  than  they. 

We  are  sprung  from  the  builders  of  nations; 

by  the  souls  of  our  fathers  we  swear, 
By  the  depths  of  the  deeps  that  surround  Her, 

by  the  height  of  the  heights  she  may 

dare, 
Though  the  Twelve  league  in  compact  against 

Her,  though  the  sea  gods  cry  out  in 

their  wrath, 
Though  the  earth  gods,  grown  drunk  of  their 

fury,  fling  the  hilltops  abroad  in  Her 

path, 
Our  Mother  of  masterful  children  shall  sit  on 

Her  throne  as  of  yore, 
With  Her  old  robes  of  purple  about  Her,  and 

crowned   with  the  crowns   that   She 

wore. 

She  shall  sit  at  the  gates  of  the  world,  where 
the  nations  shall  gather  and  meet, 

And  the  East  and  the  West  at  Her  bidding 
shall  lie  in  a  leash  at  Her  feet. 

S.  J.  ALEXANDER. 


The  regeneration  was  moral  as  wsll  as  physical, 
for  not  only  was  the  town  rebuilt,  but  it  was  res 
cued  from  the  corrupt  ring  which,  for  years,  had 
kept  control  of  the  city  government. 


RESURGE   SAN  FRANCISCO 

BEHOLD  her  Seven  Hills  loom  white 
Once  more  as  marble-builded  Rome. 
Her  marts  teem  with  a  touch  of  home 
And  music  fills  her  halls  at  night; 
Her  streets  flow  populous,  and  light 
Floods  every  happy,  hopeful  face; 
The  wheel  of  fortune  whirls  apace 
And  old-time  fare  and  dare  hold  sway. 
Farewell  the  blackened,  toppling  wall, 
The  bent  steel  gird,  the  sombre  pall  — 
Farewell  forever,  let  us  pray; 
Farewell,  forever  and  a  day ! 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


On  June  24,  1908,  Grover  Cleveland,  twice 
President  of  the  United  States,  died  at  his  home  in 
Princeton,  N.  J.,  at  the  age  of  seventy-one.  His 
death  called  forth  a  remarkable  tribute  from  men 
of  all  parties  and  in  all  walks  of  life  —  a  tribute  to 
his  stainless  service  of  the  state,  to  his  honesty, 
courage,  and  fidelity.  Lowell  had  called  him  "  the 
most  typical  American  since  Lincoln." 


GROVER  CLEVELAND 

[1837-1908] 

BRING  cypress,  rosemary  and  rue 
For  him  who  kept  his  rudder  true; 
Who  held  to  right  the  people's  will, 
And  for  whose  foes  we  love  him  still. 

A  man  of  Plutarch's  marble  mold, 
Of  virtues  strong  and  manifold, 
Who  spurned  the  incense  of  the  hour, 
And  made  the  nation's  weal  his  dower. 

His  sturdy,  rugged  sense  of  right 
Put  selfish  purpose  out  of  sight; 
Slowly  he  thought,  but  long  and  well, 
With  temper  imperturbable. 

Bring  cypress,  rosemary  and  rue 
For  him  who  kept  his  rudder  true; 
Who  went  at  dawn  to  that  high  star 
Where  Washington  and  Lincoln  are. 
JOEL  BENTON. 


One  feature  of  the  country's  growth  has  awak 
ened  great  uneasiness.  Over  a  million  emigrants 
have  been  landing  every  year  upon  her  shores, 
and  the  feeling  has  grown  that  America  must  cease 
to  be  an  asylum  for  the  ignorance  and  vice  of 
Europe. 


NATIONAL  SONG 


659 


UNGUARDED  GATES 

WIDE  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
Named  of  the  four  winds,  North,  South,  East, 

and  West; 

Portals  that  lead  to  an  enchanted  land 
Of  cities,  forests,  fields  of  living  gold, 
Vast  prairies,  lordly  summits  touched  with 

snow, 

Majestic  rivers  sweeping  proudly  past 
The  Arab's  date-palm  and  the  Norseman's 

pine  — 

A  realm  wherein  are  fruits  of  every  zone, 
Airs  of  all  climes,  for  lo!  throughout  the  year 
The  red  rose  blossoms  somewhere  —  a  rich 

land, 

A  later  Eden  planted  in  the  wilds, 
With  not  an  inch  of  earth  within  its  bound 
But  if  a  slave's  foot  press  it  sets  him  free. 
Here,  it  is  written,  Toil  shall  have  its  wage, 
And  Honor  honor,  and  the  humblest  man 
Stand  level  with  the  highest  in  the  law. 
Of  such  a  land  have  men  in  dungeonsdreamed, 
And  with  the  vision  brightening  in  their  eyes 
Gone  smiling  to  the  fagot  and  the  sword. 

Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
And   through  them   presses  a  wild   motley 

throng  — 

Men  from  the  Volga  and  the  Tartar  steppes, 
Featureless  figures  of  the  Hoang-Ho, 
Malayan,  Scythian,  Teuton,  Kelt,  and  Slav, 
Flying  the  Old  World's  poverty  and  scorn; 
These  bringing  with  them  unknown  gods  and 

rites, 
Those,  tiger  passions,  here  to  stretch  their 

claws. 
In  street  and  alley  what  strange  tongues  are 

loud, 

Accents  of  menace  alien  to  our  air, 
Voices  that  once  the  Tower  of  Babel  knew ! 

O  Liberty,  white  Goddess!  is  it  well 
To  leave  the  gates  unguarded  ?  On  thy  breast 
Fold  Sorrow's  children,  soothe  the  hurts  of  fate, 
Lift  the  down-trodden,  but  with  hands  of  steel 
Stay  those  who  to  thy  sacred  portals  come 
To  waste  the  gifts  of  freedom.  Have  a  care 
Lest  from  thy  brow  the  clustered  stars  be  torn 
And  trampled  in  the  dust.   For  so  of  old 
The  thronging  Goth  and  Vandal  trampled 

Rome, 

And  where  the  temples  of  the  Caesars  stood 
The  lean  wolf  unmolested  made  her  lair. 
THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


The  first  decade  of  the  new  century  has  wit 
nessed  a  long  stride  forward  toward  better  govern 
ment.  State  and  Nation  have  asserted  the  right 
to  regulate  railroad  rates,  to  abolish  gambling,  to 
supervise  the  sale  of  poisons  and  intoxicants,  to 
protect  the  people  from  impure  food,  from  quack 
ery  and  swindling,  and  to  break  up  combinations 
in  restraint  of  trade. 

NATIONAL  SONG 

AMERICA,  my  own ! 

Thy  spacious  grandeurs  rise 
Faming  the  proudest  zone 

Pavilioned  by  the  skies; 
Day's  flying  glory  breaks 

Thy  vales  and  mountains  o'er, 
And  gilds  thy  streams  and  lakes 

From  ocean  shore  to  shore. 

Praised  be  thy  wood  and  wold, 

Thy  corn  and  wine  and  flocks, 
The  yellow  blood  of  gold 

Drained  from  thy  canon  rocks; 
Thy  trains  that  shake  the  land, 

Thy  ships  that  plough  the  main, 
Triumphant  cities  grand 

Roaring  with  noise  of  gain. 

Earth's  races  look  to  Thee : 

The  peoples  of  the  world 
Thy  risen  splendors  see 

And  thy  wide  flag  unfurled; 
Thy  sons,  in  peace  or  war, 

That  emblem  who  behold, 
Bless  every  shining  star, 

Cheer  every  streaming  fold ! 

Float  high,  O  gallant  flag, 

O'er  Carib  Isles  of  palm, 
O'er  bleak  Alaskan  crag, 

O'er  far-off  lone  Guam; 
Where  Mauna  Loa  pours 

Black  thunder  from  the  deeps; 
O'er  Mindanao's  shores, 

O'er  Luzon's  coral  steeps. 

Float  high,  and  be  the  sign 

Of  love  and  brotherhood,  — 
The  pledge,  by  right  divine 

Of  Power,  to  do  good ; 
For  aye  and  everywhere, 

On  continent  and  wave, 
Armipotent  to  dare. 

Imperial  to  save! 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE. 


66o 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Especially  significant  has  been  the  awakening 
of  the  public  conscience,  the  growing  intolerance 
of  corruption  in  office,  the  demand  for  honesty  in 
public  as  in  private  life,  and  the  realization  of  the 
fact  that  the  great  public  service  corporations  are 
accountable  to  the  people  and  amenable  to  law. 


AD  PATRIAM 

To  deities  of  gauds  and  gold, 

Land  of  our  Fathers,  do  not  bow! 

But  unto  those  beloved  of  old 
Bend  thou  the  brow! 

Austere  they  were  of  front  and  form; 

Rigid  as  iron  in  their  aim ; 
Yet  in  them  pulsed  a  blood  as  warm 

And  pure  as  flame;  — 

Honor,  whose  foster-child  is  Truth; 

Unselfishness  in  place  and  plan ; 
Justice,  with  melting  heart  of  ruth; 

And  Faith  in  man. 

Give  these  our  worship;  then  no  fears 
Of  future  foes  need  fright  thy  soul; 

Triumphant  thou  shalt  mount  the  years 
Toward  thy  high  goal! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


O  LAND  BELOVED 

From  "  My  Country  " 

O  LAND  beloved ! 
My  Country,  dear,  my  own! 
May  the  young  heart  that  moved 
For  the  weak  words  atone; 
The  mighty  lyre  not  mine,  nor  the  full  breath 

of  song ! 

To  happier  sons  shall  these  belong. 
Yet  doth  the  first  and  lonely  voice 
Of  the  dark  dawn  the  heart  rejoice, 
While  still  the  loud  choir  sleeps  upon  the 

bough; 
And  never  greater  love  salutes  thy  brow 

Than  his,  who  seeks  thee  now. 
Alien  the  sea  and  salt  the  foam 
Where'er  it  bears  him  from  his  home; 
And  when  he  leaps  to  land, 
A  lover  treads  the  strand ; 
Precious  is  every  stone; 
No  little  inch  of  all  the  broad  domain 
But  he  would  stoop  to  kiss,  and  end 
his  pain, 


Feeling  thy  lips  make  merry  with  his 

own; 

But  oh,  his  trembling  reed  too  frail 
To  bear  thee  Time's  All-Hail! 

Faint  is  my  heart,  and  ebbing  with  the  passion 

of  thy  praise! 

The  poets  come  who  cannot  fail; 
Happy  are  they  who  sing  thy  perfect  days ! 
Happy  am  I  who  see  the  long  night  ended. 
In  the  shadows  of  the  age  that  bore  me, 
All  the  hopes  of  mankind  blending, 
Earth  awaking,  heaven  descending, 
While  the  new  day  steadfastly 
Domes  the  blue  deeps  over  thee! 
Happy  am  I  who  see  the  Vision  splendid 
In  the  glowing  of  the  dawn  before  me, 
All  the  grace  of  heaven  blending, 
Man  arising,  Christ  descending, 
While  God's  hand  in  secrecy 
Builds  thy  bright  eternity. 
GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 

So  America  faces  the  future  unafraid,  —  confi 
dent  that  her  problems  will  be  wisely  solved,  that 
a  splendid  destiny  awaits  her,  and  that  "govern 
ment  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people, 
shall  not  perish  from  the  earth." 

THE  REPUBLIC 

From  "The  Building  of  the  Ship" 

THOU,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN   WALKS   AT   MIDNIGHT 


66 1 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   WORLD   WAR 


For  generations  Americans  had  been  taught  by  the 
provincially  minded  to  glory  in  their  "splendid  iso 
lation,"  but  the  more  discerning  perceived  that 
steam  and  electricity  were  making  the  world  smaller 
and  smaller,  and  that  economic  causes  were  drawing 
its  nations  more  and  more  closely  together.  They 
perceived,  too,  that  the  democratic  theory  of  govern 
ment  to  which  America  was  consecrated  had  two 
staunch  champions  in  western  Europe,  France  and 
England,  and  two  implacable  enemies,  Germany  and 
Austria;  and  vhen,  on  August  1,  1914,  the  rulers  of 
these  two  empires  decreed  the  war  which  they  hoped 
would  lead  to  world  power,  many  Americans  felt  most 
keenly  that  their  country's  place  was  by  the  side  of 
France  and  England  in  their  battle  for  human  free 
dom. 

SONNETS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  FALL 
OF  1914 

AWAKE,  ye  nations,  slumbering  supine, 
Who  round  enring  the  European  fray! 
Heard  ye  the  trumpet  sound?  "The  Day!  the 

Day! 
The  last  that   shall    on    England's   empire 

shine! 

The  Parliament  that  broke  the  Right  Divine 
Shall  see  her  realm  of  reason  swept  away, 
And  lesser  nations  shall  the  sword  obey  — 
The  sword  o'er  all  carve  the  great  world's  de 
sign!" 

So  on  the  English  Channel  boasts  the  foe 
On  whose  imperial  brow  death's  helmet  nods. 
Look  where  his  hosts  o'er  bloody  Belgium  go, 
And  mix  a  nation's  past  with  blazing  sods! 
A  kingdom's  waste!  a  people's  homeless  woe! 
Man's  broken  Word,  and  violated  gods! 

Far  fall  the  day  when  England's  realm  shall  see 
The  sunset  of  dominion !  Her  increase 
Abolishes  the  man-dividing  seas, 
And  frames  the  brotherhood  on  earth  to  be! 
She,  in  free  peoples  planting  sovereignty, 
Orbs  half  the  civil  world  in  British  peace; 
And  though  time  dispossess  her,  and  she  cease, 
Rome-like  she  greatens  in  man's  memory. 
Oh,  many  a  crown  shall  sink  in  war's  turmoil, 
And  many  a  new  republic  light  the  sky, 
Fleets  sweep  the  ocean,  nations  till  the  soil, 
Genius  be  born  and  generations  die. 


Orient  and  Occident  together  toil, 

Ere  such  a  mighty  work  man  rears  on  high! 

Hearken,  the  feet  of  the  Destroyer  tread 
The  wine-press  of  the  nations;  fast  the  blood 
Pours  from  the  side  of  Europe;  in  full  flood 
On  the  Septentrional  watershed 
The  rivers  of  fair  France  are  running  red! 
England,  the  mother-eyrie  of  our  brood, 
That  on  the  summit  of  dominion  stood, 
Shakes  in  the  blast:  heaven  battles  overhead! 
Lift  up  thy  head,  O  Rheims,  of  ages  heir 
That  treasured  up  in  thee  their  glorious  sum; 
Upon  whose  brow,  prophetically  fair, 
Flamed  the  great  morrow  of  the  world  to  come; 
Haunt  with  thy  beauty  this  volcanic  air 
Ere  yet  thou  close,  O  Flower  of  Christendom! 

As  when  the  shadow  of  the  sun's  eclipse 
Sweeps  on  the  earth,  and  spreads  a  spectral  air, 
As  if  the  universe  were  dying  there, 
On  continent  and  isle  the  darkness  dips, 
Unwonted  gloom,  and  on  the  Atlantic  slips; 
So  in  the  night  the  Belgian  cities  flare 
Horizon-wide;  the  wandering  people  fare 
Along  the  roads,  and  load  the  fleeing  ships. 
And  westward  borne  that  planetary  sweep, 
Darkening  o'er  England  and  her  times  to  be, 
Already  steps  upon  the  ocean-deep ! 
Watch  well,  my  country,  that  unearthly  sea, 
Lest  when  thou  thinkest  not,  and  in  thy  sleep, 
Unapt  for  war,  that  gloom  enshadow  thee! 
GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY. 


American  opinion  was  especially  aroused  by  Ger 
many's  cynical  disregard  of  her  pledge  to  preserve 
the  neutrality  of  Belgium,  and  by  the  outrages 
which  crimsoned  every  step  of  the  invasion  of  that 
little  kingdom. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT 
MIDNIGHT 

[In  Springfield,  Illinois] 

IT  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 
That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little 


662 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   HISTORY 


A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 
Near  the  old  court-house  pacing  up  and  down. 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play; 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn 

stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 

A  bronzed,  lank  man!    His  suit  of  ancient 

black, 

A  famous  high  top-hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men 

love. 
The  prairie-lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 
He  is  among  us:  —  as  in  times  before! 
And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long 
Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the 
door. 

His  head  is  bowed.   He  thinks  on  men  and 

kings. 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he 

sleep? 

Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why, 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts  scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders 

now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 

He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 

Shall  come;  —  the  shining  hope  of  Europe 

free: 

The  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp,  and  Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  kings  must  murder 

still, 

That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.   And  who  will  bring  white 

peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 

VACHEL  LINDSAY. 


On  sea,  as  well  as  on  land,  the  same  policy  of 
"frightfulness"  was  followed,  and  German  sub 
marines  and  raiders,  finding  it  dangerous  to  attack 


British  battleships,  turned  their  attention  to  un 
armed  merchantmen.  On  February  28,  1915,  an 
American  vessel,  the  William  P.  Frye,  carrying 
wheat  from  Seattle  to  Queenstown,  was  sunk  by  a 
German  raider  in  the  South  Atlantic. 


THE  "WILLIAM  P.  FRYE" 

[February  28,  1915] 

I  SAW  her  first  abreast  the  Boston  Light 

At  anchor;  she  had  just  come  in,  turned  head, 

And  sent    her  hawsers   creaking,   clattering 

down. 

I  was  so  near  to  where  the  hawse-pipes  fed 
The  cable  out  from  her  careening  bow, 
I  moved  up  on  the  swell,  shut  steam  and  lay 
Hove  to  in  my  old  launch  to  look  at  her. 
She  'd  come  in  light,  a-skimming  up  the  Bay 
Like  a  white  ghost  with  topsails  bellying  full; 
And  all  her  noble  lines  from  bow  to  stern 
Made  music  in  the  wind;  it  seemed  she  rode 
The  morning  air  like  those  thin  clouds  that 

turn 

Into  tall  ships  when  sunrise  lifts  the  clouds 
From  calm  sea-courses. 

There,  in  smoke-smudged  coats, 
Lay  funnelled  liners,  dirty  fishing  craft, 
Blunt  cargo-luggers,  tugs,  and  ferry-boats. 
Oh,  it  was  good  in  that  black-scuttled  lot 
To  see  the  Frye  come  lording  on  her  way 
Like  some  old  queen  that  we  had  half  forgot 
Come  to  her  own.  A  little  up  the  Bay 
The  Fort  lay  green,  for  it  was  springtime  then; 
The  wind  was  fresh,  rich  with  the  spicy  bloom 
Of  the  New  England  coast  that  tardily 
Escapes,  late  April,  from  an  icy  tomb. 
The  State-House  glittered  on  old  Beacon  Hill, 
Gold  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  'T  was  all  so  fair  awhile; 
But  she  was  fairest  —  this  great  square-rigged 

ship 

That  had  blown  in  from  some  far  happy  isle 
Or  from  the  shores  of  the  Hesperides. 

They  caught  her  in  a  South  Atlantic  road 
Becalmed,  and  found  her  hold  brimmed   up 

with  wheat; 
"Wheat's  contraband,"  they  said,  and  blew 

her  hull 

To  pieces,  murdered  one  of  our  staunch  fleet, 
Fast  dwindling,  of  the  big  old  sailing  ships 
That  carry  trade  for  us  on  the  high  sea 
And  warped  out  of  each  harbor  in  the  States. 


THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED 


663 


It  was  n't  law,  so  it  seems  strange  to  me  — 
A  big  mistake.  Her  keel 's  struck  bottom  now 
And  her  four  masts  sunk  fathoms,  fathoms 

deep 

To  Davy  Jones.  The  dank  seaweed  will  root 
On  her  oozed  decks,  and  the  cross-surges  sweep 
Through  the  set  sails;  but  never,  never  more 
Her  crew  will  stand  away  to  brace  and  trim, 
Nor  sea-blown  petrels  meet  her  thrashing  up 
To  windAvard  on  the  Gulf  Stream's  stormy 

rim; 

Never  again  she  '11  head  a  no'theast  gale, 
Or  like  a  spirit  loom  up,  sliding  dumb, 
And  ride  in  safe  beyond  the  Boston  Light, 
To  make  the  harbor  glad  because  she 's  come. 
JEANNE  ROBERT  FOSTER. 


The  crowning  outrage  came  on  May  7,  1915,  when 
the  great  Cunard  steamship  Lusitania  was  torpe 
doed  without  warning  off  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and 
1153  men,  women,  and  children  drowned.  Of  these, 
114  were  Americans. 

THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED 

[May  7,  1915] 

WITH  drooping  sail  and  pennant 

That  never  a  wind  may  reach, 
They  float  in  sunless  waters 

Beside  a  sunless  beach. 
Their  mighty  masts  and  funnels 

Are  white  as  driven  snow, 
And  with  a  pallid  radiance 

Their  ghostly  bulwarks  glow. 

Here  is  a  Spanish  galleon 

That  once  with  gold  was  gay, 
Here  is  a  Roman  trireme 

Whose  hues  outshone  the  day. 
But  Tyrian  dyes  have  faded, 

And  prows  that  once  were  bright 
With  rainbow  stains  wear  only 

Death's  livid,  dreadful  white. 

White  as  the  ice  that  clove  her 

That  unforgotten  day, 
Among  her  pallid  sisters 

The  grim  Titanic  lay. 
And  through  the  leagues  above  her 

She  looked  aghast,  and  said : 
"What  is  this  living  ship  that  comes 

Where  every  ship  is  dead?" 


The  ghostly  vessels  trembled 

From  ruined  stern  to  prow; 
What  was  this  thing  of  terror 

That  broke  their  vigil  now? 
Down  through  the  startled  ocean 

A  mighty  vessel  came, 
Not  white,  as  all  dead  ships  must  be, 

But  red,  like  living  flame! 

The  pale  green  waves  about  her 

Were  swiftly,  strangely  dyed, 
By  the  great  scarlet  stream  that  flowed 

From  out  her  wounded  side. 
And  all  her  decks  were  scarlet 

And  all  her  shattered  crew. 
She  sank  among  the  white  ghost  ships 

And  stained  them  through  and  through. 

The  grim  Titanic  greeted  her. 

"And  who  art  thou?"  she  said; 
"Why  dost  thou  join  our  ghostly  fleet 

Arrayed  in  living  red? 
We  are  the  ships  of  sorrow 

Who  spend  the  weary  night, 
Until  the  dawn  of  Judgment  Day, 

Obscure  and  still  and  white." 

"Nay,"  said  the  scarlet  visitor, 

"Though  I  sink  through  the  sea, 
A  ruined  thing  that  was  a  ship, 

I  sink  not  as  did  ye. 
For  ye  met  with  your  destiny 

By  storm  or  rock  or  fight, 
So  through  the  lagging  centuries 

Ye  wear  your  robes  of  white. 

"But  never  crashing  iceberg 

Nor  honest  shot  of  foe, 
Nor  hidden  reef  has  sent  me 

The  way  that  I  must  go. 
My  wound  that  stains  the  waters. 

My  blood  that  is  like  flame, 
Bear  witness  to  a  loathly  deed, 

A  deed  without  a  name. 

"  I  went  not  forth  to  battle, 

I  carried  friendly  men, 
The  children  played  about  my  decks, 

The  women  sang  —  and  then  — 
And  then  —  the  sun  blushed  scarlet 

And  Heaven  hid  its  face, 
The  world  that  God  created 

Became  a  shameful  place! 


664 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY 


"  My  wrong  cries  out  for  vengeance, 

The  blow  that  sent  me  here 
Was  aimed  in  hell.  My  dying  scream 

Has  reached  Jehovah's  ear. 
Not  all  the  seven  oceans 

Shall  wash  away  that  stain; 
Upon  a  brow  that  wears  a  crown 

I  am  the  brand  of  Cain." 

When  God's  great  voice  assembles 

The  fleet  on  Judgment  Day, 
The  ghosts  of  ruined  ships  will  rise 

In  sea  and  strait  and  bay. 
Though  they  have  lain  for  ages 

Beneath  the  changeless  flood, 
They  shall  be  white  as  silver, 

But  one  —  shall  be  like  blood. 

JOYCE  KILMER. 


No  event  since  the  sinking  of  the  Maine  in  Havana 
Harbor  had  so  stirred  the  country  with  rage  and 
horror.  The  contention  of  the  Germans  that  they 
were  fighting  for  the  freedom  of  the  seas  was  in 
dignantly  scouted. 

MARE  LIBERUM 

You  dare  to  say  with  perjured  lips, 
"We  fight  to  make  the  ocean  free?  ' 

You,  whose  black  trail  of  butchered  ships 
Bestrews  the  bed  of  every  sea 

Where  German  submarines  have  wrought 

Their  horrors!  Have  you  never  thought,  — 
What  you  call  freedom,  men  call  piracy! 

Unnumbered  ghosts  that  haunt  the  wave 
Where  you  have  murdered,  cry  you  down; 

And  seamen  whom  you  would  not  save 
Weave  now  in  weed-grown  depths  a  crown 

Of  shame  for  your  imperious  head,  — 

A  dark  memorial  of  the  dead,  — 

Women  and  children  whom  you  sent  to 
drown. 

Nay,  not  till  thieves  are  set  to  guard 
The  gold,  and  corsairs  called  to  keep 

O'er  peaceful  commerce  watch  and  ward. 
And  wolves  to  herd  the  helpless  sheep, 

Shall  men  and  women  look  to  thee, 

Thou  ruthless  Old  Man  of  the  Sea, 
To  safeguard   law   and  freedom  on  the 
deep! 


In  nobler  breeds  we  put  our  trust: 
The  nations  in  whose  sacred  lore 

The  "Ought"  stands  out  above  the  "Must, 
And  honor  rules  in  peace  and  war. 

With  these  we  hold  in  soul  and  heart, 

With  these  we  choose  our  lot  and  part, 
Till  liberty  is  safe  on  sea  and  shore. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE. 


President  Woodrow  Wilson  warned  Germany 
that  the  United  States  could  not  stand  idly  by  in  the 
event  of  further  contemptuous  disregard  of  American 
rights,  and  Germany  promised  to  restrict  her  subma 
rine  warfare;  but  a  great  portion  of  the  country  felt 
there  was  already  more  than  sufficient  cause  for  war, 
and  many  Americans  entered  the  French  aviation 
corps  and  Foreign  Legion,  or  went  to  Canada  and 
enlisted  there,  in  order  to  take  their  stand  at  once 
beside  the  nations  which  were  battling  for  human 
liberty. 

ODE  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERI 
CAN  VOLUNTEERS  FALLEN  FOR 
FRANCE 

[To  have  been  read  before  the  statue  of  Lafay 
ette  and  Washington  in  Paris,  on  Decoration  Day, 
May  30,  1916] 


AY,  it  is  fitting  on  this  holiday, 
Commemorative  of  our  soldier  dead, 
When  —  with  sweet  flowers  of  our  New  Eng 
land  May 
Hiding  the  lichened  stones  by  fifty  years  made 

gray  — 

Their  graves  in  every  town  are  garlanded, 
That  pious  tribute  should  be  given  too 
To  our  intrepid  few 
Obscurely  fallen  here  beyond  the  seas. 
Those  to  preserve  their  country's  greatness 

died; 

But  by  the  death  of  these 
Something  that  we  can  look  upon  with  pride 
Has  been  achieved,  nor  wholly  unreplied 
Can  sneerers  triumph  in  the  charge  they  make 
That  from  a  war  where  Freedom  was  at  stake 
America  withheld  and,  daunted,  stood  aside. 


Be  they  remembered  here  with  each  reviving 

spring, 

Not  only  that  in  May,  when  life  is  loveliest, 
Around    Neuville-Saint-Vaast    and    the  dis 
puted  crest 


ODE  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICAN  VOLUNTEERS       665 


Of  Vimy,  they,  superb,  unfaltering, 
In  that  fine  onslaught  that  no  fire  could  halt, 
Parted  impetuous  to  their  first  assault; 
But  that  they  brought  fresh  hearts  and  spring 
like  too 

To  that  high  mission,  and  't  is  meet  to  strew 
With  twigs  of  lilac  and  spring's  earliest  rose 
The  cenotaph  of  those 

Who  in  the  cause  that  history  most  endears 
Fell  in  the  sunny  morn  and  flower  of  their 
young  years. 

m 

Yet    sought    they    neither   recompense   nor 

praise, 

Nor  to  be  mentioned  in  another  breath 
Than  their  blue-coated  comrades  whose  great 

days 
It  was  their  pride  to  share  —  ay,  share  even 

to  the  death! 
Nay,  rather,  France,  to  you  they  rendered 

thanks 

(Seeing  they  came  for  honor,  not  for  gain), 
Who,  opening  to  them  your  glorious  ranks, 
Gave  them  that  grand  occasion  to  excel, 
That  chance  to  live  the  life  most  free  from  stain 
And  that  rare  privilege  of  dying  well. 

IV 

0  friends!  I  know  not  since  that  war  began 
From  which  no  people  nobly  stands  aloof 
If  in  all  moments  we  have  given  proof 

Of  virtues  that  were  thought  American. 

1  know  not  if  in  all  things  done  and  said 
All  has  been  well  and  good, 

Or  if  each  one  of  us  can  hold  his  head 

As  proudly  as  he  should, 

Or,  from  the  pattern  of  those  mighty  dead 

Whose  shades  our  country  venerates  to-day, 

If  we've  not  somewhat  fallen  and  somewhat 

gone  astray. 

But  you  to  whom  our  land 's  good  name  is  dear, 
If  there  be  any  here 

Who  wonder  if  her  manhood  be  decreased, 
Relaxed  its  sinews  and  its  blood  less  red 
Than  that  at  Shiloh  and  Antietam  shed, 
Be  proud  of  these,  have  joy  in  this  at  least, 
And  cry:  "Now,  heaven  be  praised 
That  in  that  hour  that  most  imperilled  her, 
Menaced  her  liberty  who  foremost  raised 
Europe's  bright  flag  of  freedom,  some  there 


Who,  not  unmindful  of  the  antique  debt, 
Came  back  the  generous  path  of  Lafayette; 
And  when  of  a  most  formidable  foe 
She  checked  each  onset,  arduous  to  stem  — 
Foiled  and  frustrated  them  — 
On  these  red  fields  where  blow  with  furious  blow 
Was  countered,  whether  the  gigantic  fray 
Rolled  by  the  Meuse  or  at  the  Bois  Sabot, 
Accents  of  ours  were  in  the  fierce  melee; 
And  on  that  furthest  rim  of  hallowed  ground 
Where  the  forlorn,  the  gallant  charge  expires, 
When  the  slain  bugler  has  long  ceased  to  sound, 
And  on  the  tangled  wire^ 
The  last  wild  rally  staggers,  crumbles,  stops, 
Withered  beneath  the  shrapnel's  iron  show 
ers:  — 
Now  heaven  be  thanked,  we  gave  a  few  brave 

drops; 

Now  heaven  be  thanked,  a  few  brave  drops 
were  ours." 


There,  holding  still,  in  frozen  steadfastness, 
Their  bayonets  toward  the  beckoning  frontiers, 
They  lie  —  our  comrades  —  lie  among  their 

peers, 

Clad  in  the  glory  of  fallen  warriors, 
Grim  clusters  under  thorny  trellises, 
Dry,  furthest  foam  upon  disastrous  shores, 
Leaves  that  made  last  year  beautiful,  still 

strewn 
Even  as  they  fell,  unchanged,  beneath  the 

changing  moon; 

And  earth  in  her  divine  indifference 
Rolls  on,  and  many  paltry  things  and  mean 
Prate  to  be  heard  and  caper  to  be  seen. 
But  they  are  silent,  calm;  their  eloquence 
Is  that  incomparable  attitude; 
No  human  presences  their  witness  are, 
But  summer  clouds  and  sunset  crimson-hued, 
And  showers  and  night  winds  and  the  northern 

star. 

Nay,  even  our  salutations  seem  profane, 
Opposed  to  their  Elysian  quietude; 
Our  salutations  coming  from  afar, 
From  our  ignobler  plane 
And  undistinction  of  our  lesser  parts: 
Hail,  brothers,  and  farewell;  you  are  twice 

blest,  brave  hearts. 

Double  your  glory  is  who  perished  thus, 
For  you  have  died  for  France  and  vindicated  us. 
ALAN  SEEGEH. 


666 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    HISTORY 


Germany  lived  up  to  her  agreement  only  in  par 
tial  and  grudging  fashion,  and  the  climax  came  on 
January  31,  1917,  when  the  German  Government 
announced  that  an  unrestricted  submarine  warfare 
against  all  ships  encountered  on  the  seas  would  begin 
next  day.  President  Wilson  at  once  handed  the 
German  Ambassador  his  passports,  and  on  April  2, 
after  the  sinking  of  three  American  ships  without 
warning,  appeared  before  Congress  and  asked  that 
war  be  declared.  After  thirteen  hours  of  debate, 
the  Senate  passed  the  necessary  resolution;  the 
House  concurred  on  April  5,  and  the  next  day  the 
President  issued  a  proclamation  declaring  that  "a 
state  of  war  exists  between  the  United  States  and 
tne  Imperial  German  Government." 


REPUBLIC  TO  REPUBLIC 

1776-1917 
PRANCE! 

It  is  I  answering. 
America! 
And  it  shall  be  remembered  not  only  in  our 

lips  but  in  our  hearts 
And  shall  awaken  forever  familiar  and  new 

as  the  morning 

That  we  were  the  first  of  all  lands 
To  be  lovers, 

To  run  to  each  other  with  the  incredible  cry 
Of  recognition. 

Bound  by  no  ties  of  nearness  or  of  knowledge 
But  of  the  nearness  of  the  heart, 
You  chose  me  then  — 
And  so  I  choose  you  now 
By  the  same  nearness  — 
And  the  name  you  called  me  then 
I  call  you  now  — 
O  Liberty,  my  Love! 

WITTER  BYNNER. 


The  Entente  Powers  welcomed  their  new  ally 
with  bursting  hearts,  for  a  decisive  victory,  which 
vas  becoming  more  and  more  hopeless,  now  seemed 
assured. 

TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF 
AMERICA 

BROTHERS  in  blood!  They  who  this  wrong 


To  wreck  our  commonwealth,  will  rue  the 

day 
When  first  they  challenged   freemen    to  the 

fray, 

And  with  the  Briton  dared  the  American. 
Now  are  we  pledged  to  win  the  Rights  of  man; 


Labor  and  Justice  now  shall  have  their  way, 
And  in  a  League  of  Peace  —  God  grant  we 

may  — 
Transform  the  earth,  not  patch  up  the  old 

plan. 

Sure  is  our  hope  since  he  who  led  your  nation 
Spake  for  mankind,  and  ye  arose  in  awe 
Of  that  high  call  to  work  the  world's  salvation; 
Clearing  your  minds  of  all  estranging  blindness 
In  the  vision  of  Beauty  and  the  Spirit's  law, 
Freedom  and  Honor  and  sweet  Loving-kind 
ness. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


One  of  the  first  acts  of  the  government  was  to 
seize  all  enemy  ships  in  American  ports  —  which,  of 
course,  included  Hawaii,  Porto  Rico  and  the  Philip 
pines.  These  were  at  once  overhauled  and  put  into 
service  under  American  command. 


THE  CAPTIVE  SHIPS  AT  MANILA 

OUR  keels  are  furred  with  tropic  weed  that 

clogs  the  crawling  tides 
And  scarred  with  crust  of  salt  and  rust  that 

gnaws  our  idle  sides; 
And  little  junks  they  come  and  go,  and  ships 

they  sail  at  dawn; 
And  all  the  outbound /winds  that  blow  they 

call  us  to  be  gone, 

As  yearning  to  the  lifting  seas  our  gaunt  flo 
tilla  rides, 

Drifting  aimless  to  and  fro, 
Sport  of  every  wind  a-blow, 
Swinging  to  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  lazy  tropic  tides. 

And  once  we  knew  the  clean  seaways  to  sail 

them  pridefully; 
And  once  we  met  the  clean  sea  winds  and  gave 

them  greeting  free; 
And  honest  craft,  they  spoke  us  fair,  who'd 

scorn  to  speak  us  now; 
And  little  craft,  they  'd  not  beware  to  cross  a 

German  bow 
When  yet  the  flag  of  Germany  had  honor  on 

the  sea. 

And  now,  of  all  that  seaward  fare, 
What  ship  of  any  port  is  there 
But  would  dip  her  flag  to  a  black  corsair 
Ere  she'd  signal  such  as  we! 


PERSHING  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LAFAYETTE 


667 


Yet  we  are  ribbed  with  Norseland  steel  and 

fleshed  with  Viking  pine, 
That's  fashioned  of  the  soil  which  bred  the 

hosts  of  Charlemagne; 
And  clad  we  are  with  rusting  pride  of  stays 

and  links  and  plates 
That  lay  within  the  mountain  side  where 

Barbarossa  waits  — 
The  mighty  Frederick  thralled  in  sleep,  held 

by  the  ancient  sign, 
While  yet  the  ravens  circle  wide 
Above  that  guarded  mountain  side, 
Full  fed  with  carrion  from  the  tide 
Of  swinish,  red  rapine! 

Oh,  we  have  known  the  German  men  when 

German  men  were  true, 
And  we  have  borne  the  German  flag  when 

honor  was  her  due; 
But  sick  we  are  of  honest  scorn  from  honest 

merchant-men  — 
The  winds  they  call  us  to  be  gone  down  to  the 

seas  again  — 
Down  to  the  seas  where  waves  lift  white  and 

gulls  they  sheer  in  the  blue, 
Shriven  clean  of  our  blood-bought  scorn 
By  a  foeman's  flag  —  ay,  proudly  borne! 
Cleaving  out  in  the  good  red  dawn  — 
Out  again  to  the  blue! 

DOROTHY  PAUL. 


Every  effort  was  bent  toward  getting  an  army  into 
the  field  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  General  John 
J.  Pershing  was  appointed  to  command  the  Ameri 
can  Expeditionary  Forces,  and  started  for  France. 
The  National  Guard  was  mobilized,  volunteers 
railed  for,  and  the  First  Division  of  regulars  was 
loaded  on  transports  and,  on  June  14,  beaded  out 
to  sea. 


THE  ROAD  TO  FRANCE 

THANK  God  our  liberating  lance 

Goes  flaming  on  the  way  to  France! 

To  France  —  the  trail  the  Gurkhas  found! 

To  France  —  old  England's  rallying  ground! 

To  France  —  the  path  the  Russians  strode! 

To  France  —  the  Anzac's  glory  road ! 

To  France  —  where  our  Lost  Legion  ran 

To  fight  and  die  for  God  and  man! 

To  France  —  with  every  race  and  breed 

That  hates  Oppression's  brutal  creed! 


Ah  France  —  how  could  our  hearts 
forget 

The  path  by  which  came  Lafayette? 

How  could  the  haze  of  doubt  hang  low 

Upon  the  road  of  Rochambeau? 

At  last,  thank  God!  At  last  we  see 

There  is  no  tribal  Liberty! 

No  beacon  lighting  just  our  shores! 

No  Freedom  guarding  but  our  doors! 

The  flame  she  kindled  for  our  sires 

Burns  now  in  Europe's  battle  fires! 

The  soul  that  led  our  fathers  west 

Turns  back  to  free  the  world's  op 
pressed! 

Allies,  you  have  not  called  in  vain; 
We  share  your  conflict  and  your  pain. 
"Old  Glory,"  through  new  stains  and  rents, 
Partakes  of  Freedom's  sacraments. 
Into  that  hell  his  will  creates 
We  drive  the  foe  —  his  lusts,  his  hates. 
Last  come,  we  will  be  last  to  stay, 
Till  Right  has  had  her  crowning  day. 
Replenish,  comrades,  from  our  veins. 
The  blood  the  sword  of  despot  drains, 
And  make  our  eager  sacrifice 
Part  of  the  freely-rendered  price 
You  pay  to  lift  humanity  — 
You  pay  to  make  our  brothers  free! 
See,  with  what  proud  hearts  we  advance 
To  France! 

DANIEL  HENDERSON. 


General  Pershing,  with  his  staff,  reached  England 
early  in  June,  and  crossed  to  France  a  few  days  later. 
On  the  Fourth  of  July,  a  parade  of  American  troops 
took  place  in  Paris,  proceeding  to  the  Piopus  ceme 
tery,  where  General  Pershing  placed  a  wreath  on  the 
tomb  of  Lafayette.  Legend  has  it  that  he  said  simply , 
"Lafayette,  we  are  here." 


PERSHING  AT  THE  TOMB  OF 
LAFAYETTE 

[July  4,  1917] 

TgEY  knew,  they  were  fighting  our  war//As 

the  months  grew  to  years 
Their  men  and  their  women  had  watched 

through  their  blood  and  their  tears 
For  a  sign  that  we  knew^we  who  could  not 

have  come  to  be  free 
Without  France/long  ago.  And  at  last  from 

the  threatening  sea 


668 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN    HISTORY 


The  stars  of  our  strength  on  the  eyes  of  their 

weariness  Tose*/r         / 
And  he  stood  among  thenythe  sorrow-strong 

hero  we  chose 
To  carry  our  ifag  to  the  tomb  of  that  French- 

man/^hose  name 

A  man  of  our  country  could  once  more  pro 
nounce  without  shame. 
What  crown  of  rich  words  would  he  set  for  all 

time  on  this  day?  / 

The  past  and  the  future  were  listening  what 

he  would  say  — 
Only  this,  from  the  white-flamLafe,Jiear1;  of  a 

passion,  austere, 
Only    this  —  ah,    but    France    understood! 

"Lafayette,  we  are  here!" 
"    AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR. 


An  army  of  at  least  2,000,000  men  was  needed  at 
once;  to  secure  it  with  the  least  possible  disturbance 
of  the  country's  economic  life,  Congress  passed  a 
bill  providing  for  a  selective  draft  of  all  men  between 
twenty-one  and  thirty.  Great  training-camps  were 
built,  and  by  September,  the  training  of  the  National 
Army  was  in  full  swing,  while  the  National  Guard 
regiments,  which  had  already  had  some  training, 
were  started  on  their  way  to  France. 


YOUR  LAD,  AND  MY  LAD 

DOWN  toward  the  deep-blue  water,  marching 

to  throb  of  drum, 
From  city  street  and  country  lane  the  lines  of 

khaki  come; 
The  rumbling  guns,  the  sturdy  tread,  are  full 

of  grim  appeal, 
While  rays  of  western  sunshme  flash  back 

from  burnished  steel. 
With  eager  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame  the  serried 

ranks  advance; 
And  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on 

their  way  to  France. 

A  sob  clings  choking  in  the  throat,  as  file  on 

file  sweep  by, 
Between  those  cheering  multitudes,  to  where 

the  great  ships  lie; 
The  batteries  halt,   the  columns  wheel,  to 

clear-toned  bugle-call, 
With  shoulders  squared  and  faces  front  they 

stand  a  khaki  wall. 


Tears  shine  on  every  watcher's   cheek,  love 

speaks  in  every  glance; 
For  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  are  on 

their  way  to  France. 

Before  them,  through  a  mist  of  years,  in  sol 
dier  buff  or  blue. 

Brave  comrades  from  a  thousand  fields  watch 
now  in  proud  review; 

The  same  old  Flag,  the  same  old  Faith  —  the 
Freedom  of  the  World  — 

Spells  Duty  in  those  flapping  folds  above  long 
ranks  unfurled. 

Strong  are  the  hearts  which  bear  along  De 
mocracy's  advance, 

As  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  go  on  their 
way  to  France. 

The  word  rings  out;  a  million  feet  tramp  for 
ward  on  the  road, 

Along  that  path  of  sacrifice  o'er  which  their 
fathers  strode. 

With  eager  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame,  with  cheers 
on  smiling  lips, 

These  fighting  men  of  '17  move  onward  to 
their  ships. 

Nor  even  love  may  hold  them  back,  or  halt 
that  stern  advance, 

As  your  dear  lad,  and  my  dear  lad,  go  on  their 
way  to  France. 

RANDALL  PARRISH. 


Germany  had  boasted  that  we  could  never  get 
an  army  to  Europe  past  her  submarines,  but  so 
efficient  was  the  system  of  protection  worked  out  by 
the  navy,  that  only  one  loaded  transport  was  sunk. 
Early  in  February,  1918,  the  Tuscania,  carrying 
2179  American  soldiers,  was  torpedoed  off  the  north 
coast  of  Ireland.  British  destroyers  rescued  all  but 
about  two  hundred  before  the  ship  sank.  Nearly 
all  the  bodies  were  washed  ashore  and  were  tenderly 
buried. 


A  CALL  TO  ARMS 

[February  5,  1918] 

IT  is  I,  America,  calling! 
Above  the  sound  of  rivers  falling, 
Above  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  chime 

of  bells  in  the  steeple 

—  Wheels,  rolling  gold  into  the  palms  of  the 
people  — 


THE  FIRST  THREE 


669 


Bells  ringing  silverly  clear  and  slow 

To  church-going,  leisurely  steps  on  pavements 
below. 

Above  all  familiar  sounds  of  the  life  of  a  na 
tion 

I  shout  to  you  a  name. 

And  the  flame  of  that  name  is  sped 

Like  fire  into  hearts  where  blood  runs  red  — 

The  hearts  of  the  land  burn  hot  to  the  land's 
salvation 

As  I  call  across  the  long  miles,  as  I,  America, 
call  to  my  nation 

Tuscania!  Tuscania! 

Americans,  remember  the  Tuscanial 

Shall  we  not  remember  how  they  died 

In  their  young  courage  and  loyalty  and  pride, 

Our  boys  —  bright-eyed,  clean  lads  of  Amer 
ica's  breed, 

Hearts  of  gold,  limbs  of  steel,  flower  of  the 
nation  indeed? 

How  they  tossed  their  years  to  be 

Into  icy  waters  of  a  winter  sea 

That  we  whom  they  loved  —  that  the  world 
which  they  loved  should  be  free? 

Ready,  ungrudging,  they  died,  each  one 
thinking,  likely,  as  the  moment  was 
come 

Of  the  dear,  starry  flag,  worth  dying  for,  and 
then  of  dear  faces  at  home; 

Going  down  in  good  order,  with  a  song  on 
their  lips  of  the  land  of  the  free  and 
the  brave 

Till  each  young,  deep  voice  stopped  —  under 
the  rush  of  a  wave. 

Was  it  like  that?  And  shall  their  memory 
ever  grow  pale? 

Nat  ever,  till  the  stars  in  the  flag  of  America 
fail. 

It  is  I,  America,  who  swear  it,  calling 

Over  the  sound  of  that  deep  ocean's  falling, 

Tuscanial  Tuscanial 

Arm,  arm,  Americans!  Remember  the  Tus 
canial 

Very  peacefully  they  are  sleeping 

In   friendly  earth,  unmindful  of  a  nation's 

weeping, 
And  the  kindly,  strange  folk  that  honored  the 

long,  full  graves,  we  know; 
And  the  mothers  know  that  their  boys  are  safe, 

now,  from  the  hurts  of  a  savage  foe; 


It  is  for  us  who  are  left  to  make  sure  and  plain 
That  these  dead,  our  precious  dead,  shall  not 

have  died  in  vain; 
So  that  I,  America,  young  and  strong  and  not 

afraid, 
I  set  my  face  across  that  sea  which  swallowed 

the  bodies  of  the  sons  I  made, 
I  set  my  eyes  on  the  still  faces  of  boys  washed 

up  on  a  distant  shore 
And  I  call  with  a  shout  to  my  own  to  end  this 

horror  forevermore! 
In  the  boys'  names  I  call  a  name, 
And  the  nation  leaps  to  fire  in  its  flame 
And  my  sons  and  my  daughters  crowd,  eager  to 

end  the  shame  — 
It  is  I,  America,  calling, 
Hoarse  with  the  roar  of  that  ocean  falling, 
Tuscanial  Tuscanial 

Arm,  arm,  Americans!    And  remember,  re 
member,  the  Tuscanial 
MARY  RAYMOND  SHIFMAN  ANDREWS. 


Meanwhile,  in  France,  the  Americans  were  al 
ready  taking  part  in  the  war.  About  the  middle  of 
October,  the  First  division  had  been  sent  into  a  here 
tofore  quiet  sector  of  the  trenches  beyond  Einville, 
in  Lorraine.  On  October  25,  we  took  our  first  pris 
oner;  a  few  days  later,  we  had  our  first  wounded; 
and  finally  before  dawn  on  the  morning  of  November 
3,  came  a  swift  German  raid  in  which  three  Americans 
were  killed,  five  wounded  and  eleven  taken  prisoner. 
The  three,  whose  names  were  Corporal  James  D. 
Gresham,  Private  Thomas  F.  Enright,  and  Private 
Merle  D.  Hay,  were  buried  at  Bathlemont  next  day, 
with  touching  ceremonies. 

THE  FIRST  THREE 

[November  3,  1917J 

"SOMEWHERE  in  France,"  upon  a  brown  hill 
side, 

They  lie,  the  first  of  our  brave  soldiers  slain; 
Above  them  flowers,  now  beaten  by  the  rain, 
Yet  emblematic  of  the  youths  who  died 
In  their  fresh  promise.  They  who,  valiant- 
eyed, 

Met  death  unfaltering  have  not  fallen  in  vain; 
Remembrance  hallows  those  who  thus  attain 
The  final  goal;  their  names  are  glorified. 
Read  then  the  roster!  —  Gresham!  Enright! 

Hay!  — 

No  bugle  call  shall  rouse  them  t/hen  the  flower 
Of  morning  breaks  above  the  hills  and  dells, 
For  they  have  grown  immortal  in  an  hour. 


6;o 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY 


And  we  who  grieve  and  cherish  them  would 

lay 

Upon  their  hillside  graves  our  immortelles! 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


TO  AMERICA,  ON  HER  FIRST  SONS 
FALLEN  IN  THE  GREAT  WAR 

Now  you  are  one  with  us,  you  know  our  tears, 
Those  tears  of  pride  and  pain  so  fast  to  flow; 
You  too  have  sipped  the  first  strange  draught 

of  woe; 

You  too  have  tasted  of  our  hopes  and  fears; 
Sister  across  the  ocean,  stretch  your  hand, 
Must  we  not  love  you  inore,  who  learn  to  un 
derstand? 

There  are  new  graves  in  France,  new  quiet 

graves; 

The  first-fruit  of  a  Nation  great  and  free, 
Full  of  rich  fire  of  life  and  chivalry. 
Lie  quietly,  though  tide  of  battle  laves 
Above  them;  sister,  sister,  see  our  tears, 
We  mourn  with  you,  who  know  so  well  the 

bitter  years. 

Now  do  you  watch  with  us;  your  pain  of  loss 
Lit  by  a  wondrous  glow  of  love  and  power 
That  flowers,  star-like  at  the  darkest  hour 
Lighting  the  eternal  message  of  the  Cross; 
They  gain  their  life  who  lose  it,  earth  shall  rise 
Anew  and  cleansed,  because  of  life's  great 
sacrifice. 

And  that  great  band  of  souls  your  dead  have 

met, 
Who  saved  the  world  in  centuries  past  and 

gone, 

Shall  find  new  comrades  in  their  valiant  throng; 
O,  Nation's  heart  that  cannot  e'er  forget, 
Is  not  death  but  the  door  to  life  begun 
To  those  who  hear  far  Heaven  cry,  "Well 

done!" 

E.  M.  WALKER. 


Training  proceeded  rapidly,  and  the  sectors  where 
its  final  stages  took  place  became  more  and  more 
lively  as  the  Americans  were  gradually  given  a  freer 
and  freer  band. 


ROUGE  BOUQUET 

[March  7, 1918] 

IN  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet 
There  is  a  new-made  grave  to-day, 
Built  by  never  a  spade  nor  pick 
Yet  covered  with  earth  ten  metres  thick. 
There  lie  many  fighting  men, 

Dead  in  their  youthful  prime, 
Never  to  laugh  nor  love  again 

Nor  taste  the  Summertime. 
For  Death  came  flying  through  the  air 
And  stopped  his  flight  at  the  dugout  stair. 
Touched  his  prey  and  left  them  there, 

Clay  to  clay. 

He  hid  their  bodies  stealthily 
In  the  soil  of  the  land  they  fought  to  free 

And  fled  away. 
Now  over  the  grave  abrupt  and  clear 

Three  volleys  ring; 
And  perhaps  their  brave  young  spirits  hear 

The  bugle  sing: 
"Go  to  sleep! 
Go  to  sleep ! 

Slumber  well  where  the  shell  screamed  and  fell 
Let  your  rifles  rest  on  the  muddy  floor, 
You  will  not  need  them  any  more. 
Danger 's  past; 
Now  at  last, 
Go  to  sleep!" 

There  is  on  earth  no  worthier  grave 
To  hold  the  bodies  of  the  brave 
Than  this  place  of  pain  and  pride 
Where  they  nobly  fought  and  nobly  died. 
Never  fear  but  in  the  skies 

Saints  and  angels  stand 
Smiling  with  their  holy  eyes 

On  this  new-come  band. 
St.  Michael's  sword  darts  through  the  air 
And  touches  the  aureole  on  his  hair 
As  he  sees  them  stand  saluting  there, 

His  stalwart  sons: 
And  Patrick,  Brigid,  Columkill 
Rejoice  that  in  veins  of  warriors  still 

The  Gael's  blood  runs. 
And  up  to  Heaven's  doorway  floats, 

From  the  wood  called  Rouge  Bouquet, 
A  delicate  cloud  of  bugle  notes 

That  softly  say: 
"Farewell! 
Farewell! 


OUR  MODEST  DOUGHBOYS 


Comrades  true,  born  anew,  peace  to  you! 
Your  souls  shall  be  where  the  heroes  are 
And  your  memory  shine  like  the  morning-star. 
Brave  and  dear, 
Shield  us  here. 
Farewell! " 

JOYCE  KILMER. 

The  great  summons  came  in  the  spring  of  1918, 
for  on  March  21  the  Germans  began  a  series  of 
terrific  attacks  which  they  believed  would  end  the 
war.  On  March  31  an  officia'  note  announced  that 
"the  Star-Spangled  Banner  will  float  beside  the 
French  and  English  flags  in  the  plains  of  Picardy." 
On  April  17  the  order  came  for  the  First  Division  to 
move  into  the  battle  area. 

MARCHING  SONG 

[April  17,  1918] 

WHEN  Pershing's  men  go  marching  into  Pi 
cardy. 

Marching,  marching  into  Picardy  — 

With  their  steel  aslant  in  the  sunlight  and 
their  great  gray  hawks  a-wing 

And  their  wagons  rumbling  after  them  like 
thunder  in  the  Spring  — 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
Till  the  earth  is  shaken  — 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
Till  the  dead  towns  waken! 
And  flowers  fall  and  shouts  arise  from  Chau- 

mont  to  the  sea  — 

When  Pershing's  men  go  marching,  march 
ing  into  Picardy. 

Women  of  France,  do  you  see  them  pass  to  the 

battle  in  the  North? 
And  do  you  stand  in  the  doorways  now  as 

when  your  own  went  forth? 
Then  smile  to  them  and  call  to  them,  and 

mark  how  brave  they  fare 
Upon  the  road  to  Picardy  that  only  youth 

may  dare! 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 

Foot  and  horse  and  caisson  — 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 

Such  is  Freedom's  passion  — 
And  oh,  take   heart,  ye  weary  souls  that 

stand  along  the  Lys, 

For  the  New  World  is  marching,  marching 
into  Picardy! 


April's  sun  is  in  the  sky  and  April's  in  the 

grass  — 
And  I  doubt  not  that  Pershing's  men  are 

singing  as  they  pass  — 
For  they  are  very  young  men,  and  brave  men, 

and  free, 
And   they   know   why   they   are   marching, 

marching  into  Picardy. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 

Rank  and  file  together  — 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
Through  the  April  weather. 
And  never  Spring  has  thrust  such  blades 

against  the  light  of  dawn 
As  yonder  waving  stalks  of  steel  that  move 
so  shining  on ! 

I  have  seen  the  wooden  crosses  at  Ypres  and 

Verdun, 
I  have  marked  the  graves  of  such  as  lie  where 

the  Marne  waters  run, 
And  I  know  their  dust  is  stirring  by  hill  and 

vale  and  lea, 
And  their  souls  shall  be  our  captains  who 

march  to  Picardy. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 

Hope  shall  fail  us  never  — 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 

Forward,  and  forever! 
And  God  is  in  His  judgment  seat,  and  Christ 

is  on  His  tree  — 

And  Pershing's  men  are  marching,  march 
ing  into  Picardy. 

DANA  BURNET. 


On  June  2,  the  Second  and  Third  Divisions  met  and 
checked  the  enemy  at  Chateau-Thierry.  The  Marne 
offensive  was  followed  sharply  by  another  on  the 
part  of  the  British,  with  whom  our  Twenty-Seventh 
Division  was  fighting,  and  on  August  8  the  Twenty- 
Seventh  broke  through  the  famous  Hindenburg  line. 


OUR  MODEST  DOUGHBOYS 

[August  8,  1918] 

SAID  the  Captain:  "There  was  wire 
A  mile  deep  in  No  Man's  Land, 

And  the  concentrated  fire 
Was  all  mortal  nerve  could  stand; 


672 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY 


But  these  huskies  craved  the  chance 
To  go  cut  and  leave  their  bones!" 

"  The  climate's  quite  some  damp  in  France" 
Said  Private  Thomas  Jones. 

Said  the  Major:  "What  is  more, 

At  the  point  where  we  attacked, 
Tough  old  veterans  loudly  swore 

Hindy's  line  could  not  be  cracked. 
But  the  27th  said, 

'Hindenburg!  That  guy's  a  myth!'" 
"I  slept  last  night  in  a  regular  bed," 

Said  Private  Johnny  Smith. 

Said  the  Colonel:  "They  had  placed 

Pillboxes  on  the  crests. 
I  can  safely  say  we  faced 

Maybe  thousands  of  those  nests. 
But  our  doughboys  took  one  height 

Seven  times  in  that  hell's  hail." 
"And  were  the  cooties  thick?  Good  night!" 

Said  Private  William  Dale. 

Said  the  General:  "We  were  told 

Anything  we'd  start  they'd  stop  — 
That  the  Boche  would  knock  us  cold 

When  we  slid  across  the  top. 
But  the  7th  with  a  yell 

Made  the  Prussian  Guards  back  down." 
"  You  ovghta  lamped  the  smile  on  Nell  I" 

Said  Private  Henry  Brown. 

Said  the  Sergeant:  "Erery  shell 

Seemed  to  whine,  'Old  scout,  you're  dead!' 
And  I  thought  I  'd  gone  to  hell 

In  a  blizzard  of  hot  lead. 
But  each  bloomin'  gunner  stuck 

At  his  post  by  his  machine." 
"Our  orders  said  to  hold  it,  Buck!" 

Said  Private  Peter  Green. 

Said  the  Chaplain:  "Talk  of  pep! 

They  were  there!  And,  may  I  add. 
When  we  clambered  up  the  step 

That  last  fight,  we  only  had 
Eighty  men  of  Company  D  — 

Every  one,  I'll  say,  a  man!" 
"And  am  I  glad  I'm  home?  Ah,  cuil" 

Said  Private  Mike  McCann. 

CHARLTON  ANOBEWS. 


Early  in  September  eight  American  divisions  were 
concentrated  on  the  Lorraine  front  and  organized 
into  the  First  American  Army.  On  September  12 
an  assault  in  force  was  made  against  the  St.-Mihiel 
salient,  which  had  threatened  France  for  four  years. 
Twenty-four  hours  later  the  salient  was  ours,  to 
gether  with  15,000  prisoners. 


SEICHEPREY 

[September  12,  19181 

A  HANDFUL  came  to  Seicheprey 
When  winter  woods  were  bare, 

When  ice  was  in  the  trenches 
And  snow  was  in  the  air. 

The  foe  looked  down  on  Seicheprey 
And  laughed  to  see  them  there. 

The  months  crept  by  at  Seicheprey 
The  growing  handful  stayed, 

With  growling  guns  at  midnight, 
At  dawn,  the  lightning  raid, 

And  learned,  in  Seicheprey  trenches, 
How  war's  red  game  is  played. 

September  came  to  Seicheprey; 

A  slow-wrought  host  arose 
And  rolled  across  the  trenches 

And  whelmed  its  sneering  foes, 
And  left  to  shattered  Seicheprey 

Unending,  sweet  repose. 


Two  weeks  later  we  began  our  greatest  battle  in 
an  attack  on  the  strong  German  positions  running 
from  the  Meuse  westward  through  the  Argonne 
forest.  It  was  in  this  battle  that  perhaps  the  most 
remarkable  single  exploit  of  the  war  was  per 
formed,  when  Corporal  Alvin  C.  York,  a  young 
giant  from  the  mountains  of  Tennessee,  who  had 
been  sent  forward  with  a  small  squad  to  clean 
up  some  machine-gun  nests,  killed  single-handed 
twenty-eight  Germans,  and  came  back  with  132 
prisoners. 


A  BALLAD  OF  REDHEAD'S  DAY 

[October  8,  1918]  i 

TALK  of  the  Greeks  at  Thermopylae! 

They  fought  like  mad  till  the  last  was  dead; 
But  Alvin  C.  York,  of  Tennessee, 

Stayed  cool  to  the  end  though  his  hair  was 

red, 

Stayed  mountain  cooi,  yet  blazed  that  gray 
October  the  Eighth  as  Redhead's  Day. 


EPICEDIUM 


673 


With  rifle  and  pistol  and  redhead  nerve 
He  captured  one  hundred  and  thirty-two; 

A  battalion  against  him,  he  did  not  swerve 
From  the  Titans'  task  they  were  sent  to  do  — 

Fourteen  men  under  Sergeant  Early 

And  York,  the  blacksmith,  big  and  burly. 

Sixteen  only,  but  fighters  all, 

They  dared  the  brood  of  a  devil's  nest, 
And  three  of  those  that  did  not  fall 

Were  wounded  and  out  of  the  scrap;  the  rest 
Were   guarding   a   bunch   of   Boche   they'd 

caught, 
When  both  were  trapped  by  a  fresh  onslaught. 

Excepting  York,  who  smiled  "Amen," 
And,  spotting  the  nests  of  spitting  guns, 

Potted  some  twenty  birds,  and  then 
Did  with  his  pistol  for  eight  more  Huns 

Wrho  thought  they  could  crush  a  Yankee  alive 

In  each  red  pound  of  two  hundred  and  five. 

That  was  enough  for  kill-babe  Fritz: 
Ninety  in  all  threw  up  their  hands. 

Suddenly  tender  as  lamb  at  the  Ritz, 

Milder  than  sheep  to  a  York's  commands; 

And  back  to  his  line  he  drove  the  herd, 

Gathering  more  on  the  way  —  Absurd! 

Absurd,  but  true  —  ay,  gospel  fact; 

For  here  was  a  man  with  a  level  head, 
Who,  scorning  to  fail  for  the  help  he  lacked, 

Helped  himself  till  he  won  instead; 
An  elder  was  he  in  the  Church  of  Christ, 
Immortal  at  thirty;  his  faith  sufficed. 

RICHARD  BUTLER  GLAENZER. 


While  our  Argonne  offensive  was  in  progress,  the 
French  and  English  had  been  striking  mighty  blows 
at  other  portions  of  the  German  line,  and  everywhere 
the  enemy  was  in  retreat.  Realizing  that  their  power 
was  broken  and  to  save  themselves  from  imminent 
disaster,  the  Germans  asked  for  an  armistice.  It  was 
offered  on  terms  so  drastic  that  many  thought  the 
Germans  would  not  sign,  but  they  did,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  November  11,  1918,  firing 
ceased  all  along  the  front. 

VICTORY  BELLS 

I  HEARD  the  bells  across  the  trees, 
I  heard  them  ride  the  plunging  breeze 
Above  the  roofs  from  tower  and  spire, 
And  they  were  leaping  like  a  fire. 


And  they  were  shining  like  a  stream 
With  sun  to  make  its  music  gleam. 
Deep  tones  as  though  the  thunder  tolled, 
Cool  voices  thin  as  tinkling  gold, 
They  shook  the  spangled  autumn  down 
From  out  the  tree-tops  of  the  town; 
They  left  great  furrows  in  the  air 
And  made  a  clangor  everywhere 
As  of  metallic  wings.  They  flew 
Aloft  in  spirals  to  the  blue 
Tall  tent  of  heaven  and  disappeared. 
And  others,  swift  as  though  they  feared 
The  people  might  not  heed  their  cry 
Went  shouting  VICTORY  up  the  sky. 
They  did  not  say  that  war  is  done. 
Only  that  glory  has  begun 
Like  sunrise,  and  the  coming  day 
Will  burn  the  clouds  of  war  away. 
There  will  be  time  for  dreams  again, 
And  home-coming  for  weary  men. 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING. 


America  had  lost  nearly  fifty  thousand  men  killed 
in  battle,  and  immediately  after  the  armistice,  work 
was  begun  gathering  together  their  bodies,  scat 
tered  over  many  battlefields,  and  re-interring  them 
in  beautiful  cemeteries,  where  their  graves  would  be 
perpetually  cared  for  and  honored. 

EPICEDIUM 

IN  MEMORY  OF  AMERICA'S  DEAD  IN  THE 
GREAT  WAR 

No  more  for  them  shall  Evening's  rose  unclose, 
Nor  Dawn's  emblazoned  panoplies  be  spread;. 
Alike,  the  Rain's  warm  kiss,  and  stabbing 

snows, 

Unminded,  fall  upon  each  hallowed  head. 
But  the  Bugles  as  they  leap  and  wildly  sing, 
Rejoice,  .  .  .  remembering. 

The  guns'  mad  music  their  young  years  have 

known  — 

War's  lullabies  that  moaned  on  Flanders  Plain; 
To-night  the  wind  walks  on  them,  still  as  stone, 
WTiere  they  lie  huddled  close  as  riven  grain. 
But  the  Drums,  reverberating,  proudly  roll — 
They  love  a  Soldier's  soul! 

With  arms  outflung,  and  eyes  that  laughed  at 

Death, 

They  drank  the  wine  of  sacrifice  and  loss; 
For  them  a  life-time  spanned  a  burning  breath. 


674 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    HISTORY 


And  Truth  they  visioned,  clean  of  earthly 

dross. 
But  the  Fifes  —  can  ye  not  hear  their  lusty 

shriek? 
They  know,  and  now  they  speak! 

The  lazy  drift  of  cloud,  the  noon-day  hum 
Of  vagrant  bees,  the  lark's  untrammeled  song 
Shall  gladden  them  no  more,  who  now  lie  dumb 
In  Death's  strange  sleep,  yet  once  were  swift 

and  strong. 

But  the  Bells  that  to  all  living  listeners  peal, 
With  joy  their  deeds  reveal! 

They  have  given  their  lives,  with  bodies  bruised 

and  broken, 

Upon  their  Country's  altar  they  have  bled; 
They  have  left,  as  priceless  heritage,  a  token 
That  Honor  lives  forever  with  the  dead. 
And  the  Bugles,  as  their  rich  notes  rise  and 

fall  — 
They  answer,  knowing  all. 

J.  CORSON  MIDLER. 


THE  DEAD 

THINK  you  the  dead  are  lonely  in  that  place? 
They  are  companioned  by  the  leaves  and 

grass, 

By  many  a  beautiful  and  vanished  face, 
By  all  the  strange  and  lovely  things  that 

pass. 
Sunsets  and  dawnings  and  the  starry  vast, 

The  swinging  moon,  the  tracery  of  trees  — 
These  they  shall  know  more  perfectly  at  last, 
They  shall  be  intimate  with  such  as  these. 
'T  is  only  for  the  living  Beauty  dies, 

Fades  and  drifts  from  us  with  too  brief  a 

grace, 
Beyond  the  changing  tapestry  of  skies 

Where  dwells  her  perfect  and  immortal  face. 
For  us  the  passage  brief;  —  the  happy  dead 
Are  ever  by  great  beauty  visited. 

DAVID  MORTON. 


THE  UNRETURNING 

FOR  us,  the  dead,  though  young, 
For  us,  who  fought  and  bled, 

Let  a  last  song  be  sung, 
And  a  last  word  be  said! 


Dreams,  hopes,  and  high  desires, 

That  leaven  and  uplift, 
On  sacrificial  fires 

We  offered  as  a  gift. 

We  gave,  and  gave  our  all, 
In  gladness,  though  in  pain; 

Let  not  a  whisper  fall 

That  we  have  died  in  vain! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


To  America's  soldier  dead  was  added,  on  January 
6,  1919,  a  valiant  and  righteous  warrior,  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  whose  sudden  death  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
one  was  a  shock  to  the  whole  country. 

THE  STAR 

[January  6,  1919] 

GREAT  soul,  to  all  brave  souls  akin, 
High  bearer  of  the  torch  of  truth, 

Have  you  not  gone  to  marshal  in 
Those  eager  hosts  of  youth? 

Flung  outward  by  the  battle's  tide, 
They  met  in  regions  dim  and  far; 

And  you — in  whom  youth  never  died  — 
Shall  lead  them,  as  a  star! 

MARION  COUTHOTJY  SMITH. 


Arrangements  for  sending  home  the  American  army 
were  begun  immediately  after  the  armistice,  and 
within  a  few  months  a  steady  stream  of  khaki-clad 
troops  was  flowing  through  the  port  of  Brest,  bound 
for  America. 

BREST  LEFT  BEHIND 

THE  sun  strikes  gold  the  dirty  street, 

The  band  blares,  the  drums  insist, 

And  brown  legs  twinkle  and  muscles  twist  — 

Pound!  —  Pound!  —  the  rhythmic  feet. 

The  laughing  street-boys  shout, 

And  a  couple  of  hags  come  out 

To  grin  and  bob  and  clap. 

Stiff  rusty  black  their  dresses, 

And  crispy  white  their  Breton  cap, 

Prim  on  white,  smooth  tresses. 

Wait!  .  .  .  Wait!  .  .  .  While  dun  clouds  droop 

Over  the  sunlit  docks, 

Over  the  wet  gray  rocks 

And  mast  of  steamer  and  sloop, 


TO  THE  RETURNING  BRAVE 


675 


And  the  old  squat  towers, 
Damp  gray  and  mossy  brown, 
Where  lovely  Ann  looked  down 
And  dreamed  rich  dreams  through  long  luxu 
rious  hours. 

Sudden  and  swift,  it  rains! 

Familiar,  fogging,  gray; 

It  blots  the  sky  away 

And  cuts  the  face  with  biting  little  pains. 

We  grunt  and  poke  shoes  free  of  muddy  cakes, 

Watching  them  messing  out 

Upon  the  dock  in  thick  brown  lakes  — 

"No  more  French  mud!"  the  sergeant  cries, 

And  someone  swears,  and  someone  sighs, 

And  the  neat  squads  swing  about. 

Silent  the  looming  hulk  above  — 

No  camouflage  this  time  — 

She's  white  and  tan  and  black! 

Hurry,  bend,  climb, 

Push  forward,  stagger  back! 

How  clean  the  wide  deck  seems, 

The  bunks,  how  trim; 

And,  oh,  the  musty  smell  of  ships! 

Faces  are  set  and  grim, 

Thinking  of  months,  this  hope  was  pain; 

And  eyes  are  full  of  dreams, 

And  gay  little  tunes  come  springing  to  the 

lips  — 
Home,  home,  again,  again! 

She's  moving  now, 

Across  the  prow 

The  dusk-soft  harbor  bursts 

Into  a  shivering  bloom  of  light 

From  warehouse,  warship,  transport,  tramp, 

And  countless  little  bobbing  masts 

Each  flouts  the  night 

With  eager  boastful  lamp  — 

Bright  now,  now  dimmer,  dimmer, 

Fewer  and  fewer  glimmer. 

Only  the  lights  that  mark  the  passing  shore, 

Lofty  and  lonely  star  the  gray  — 

Then  are  no  more. 

We  are  alone  with  dusk  and  creamy  spray. 

The  captain  coughs,  remembering  the  rain. 
The  major  coughs  remembering  the  mud. 
Some  shudder  at  the  horror  of  dark  blood, 
Or  wine-wet  kisses,  lewd. 
Some  sigh,  remembering  new  loves  and  fare 
well  pain. 


Some  smile,  remembering  old  loves  to  be  re 
newed. 

Silent,  we  stare  across  the  deepening  night. 

France  vanishing!  —  Swift,  swift,  the  curling 
waves  — 

Fights  and  despair, 

And  faces  fair; 

Proud  heads  held  high 

For  Victory; 

And  flags  above  friends'  graves. 

The  group  buzzes,  rustles,  hums, 
Then  stiffens  as  the  colonel  comes, 
A  burly  figure  in  the  mellow  light, 
With  haughty,  kingly  ways. 
He  does  not  scan  the  night, 
Nor  hissing  spray  that  flies, 
But  his  cold  old  glance  plays 
Along  the  level  of  our  eyes. 

"I  don't  see  very  many  tears,"  he  says. 

JOHN  CHIPMAN  FARRAR. 


America  went  wild  in  welcoming  them,  as  they 
arrived  division  after  division.  There  were  parades 
and  celebrations;  but  with  surprising  swiftness  the 
divisions  were  demobilized  and  the  men  returned  to 
civil  life. 


TO  THE  RETURNING  BRAVE 

VICTORIOUS    knights    without    reproach    or 

fear  — 

As  close  as  man  is  ever  to  the  stars!  — 
Our  welcome  met  you  on  the  ocean  drear 
In  loud,  free  winds  and   sunset's  golden 

bars. 

Here,  at  our  bannered  gate 
Love,  honor,  laurels  wait. 
Though  you  be  humble,  we  are  proud,  and, 
in  your  stead,  elate. 

Fame  shall  not  tire  to  tell,  no  sordid  stain 

Lies  on  your  purpose,  on  your  record  none. 
No  broken  word,  no  violated  fane, 
No  winning  one  could  wish  had  ne'er  been 

won. 

You  were  our  message  sent 
To  the  torn  Continent: 
That  with  its  hope  and  faith  henceforth  our 
faith  and  hope  are  blent. 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


You  of  our  new,  our  homespun  chivalry, 

Here  is  your  welcome  —  in  all  women's  eyes, 
The  envious  handclasp,  romping  children's 

glee, 

Music,  and  color,  and  glad  tears  that  rise. 
Here  every  voice  of  Peace 
Shall  bruit  our  joy,  nor  cease 
To  vie  with  shotless  guns  to  shout  your  blame 
less  victories. 

But,  though  you  are  a  part  of  all  men's  pride, 
And  from  your  fortitude  new  nations  date, 
Oh,  lay  not  yet  your  sacred  steel  aside, 
But  save  it  for  the  still-imperiled  State. 
You  who  have  bound  a  girth 
Of  new  hope  round  the  Earth, 
Should  its  firm  bond  be  loosened  here,  what 
were  your  struggle  worth? 

A  redder  peril  dogs  the  path  of  war; 

With  fire  and  poison  wanton  children  play; 
And  fickle  crowds    toward    new  pretenders 

pour 

Who  summon  demons  they  can  never  lay. 
Already  we  can  hear, 
Importunately  near, 

The  snarling  of  the  savage  crew,  half  fury  and 
half  jeer. 

Then  hang  not  up  your  arms  till  you  have 

taught 
The  ungrateful  guests  about  our  hearth  and 

board 

That  in  your  swift  encounter  has  been  wrought 
A  keener  edge  to  our  reluctant  sword. 
You  who  know  well  the  price    ' 
Of  the  great  sacrifice, 

Your  courage  saved  us  once;  pray  Heaven,  it 
need  not  save  us  twice. 

And  those  who  come  not  back,  who  mutely  lie 
By  Marne  or  Meuse  or  tangled  Argonne 

wood: 

Were  it  to  lose  the  gain,  (let  them  reply!) 
Would  we  recall  their  spirits  if  we  covld  ? 
Open  your  ranks  and  save 
Their  places  with  the  brave, 
That  Liberty  may  greet  you  all,  her  shields  of 
land  and  wave. 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


Amid  all  the  celebrations,  there  was  always  the 
consciousness  of  those  who  would  not  return,  in  body, 
at  least,  but  whose  spirits  would  never  be  severed 
from  America's. 


THE  RETURN 

GOLDEN  through  the  golden  morning, 

Who  is  this  that  comes 
With  the  pride  of  banners  lifted, 

With  the  roll  of  drums? 

With  the  self-same  triumph  shining 

In  the  ardent  glance, 
That  divine,  bright  fate  defiance 

That  you  bore  to  France. 

You!  But  o'er  your  grave  in  Flanders 

Blow  the  winter  gales; 
Still  for  sorrow  of  your  going 

All  life's  laughter  fails. 

Borne  on  flutes  of  dawn  the  answer: 
"O'er  the  foam's  white  track, 
God's  work  done,  so  to  our  homeland 
Comes  her  hosting  back. 

"  Come  the  dead  men  with  the  live  men 

From  the  marshes  far, 
From  the  mounds  in  no  man's  valley, 

Lit  by  cross  nor  star. 

"  Come  to  blend  with  hers  the  essence 

Of  their  strength  and  pride, 
All  the  radiance  of  the  dreaming 

For  whose  truth  they  died." 

So  the  dead  men  with  the  live  men 

Pass,  an  hosting  fair, 
And  the  stone  is  rolled  forever 

From  the  soul's  despair. 

ELEANOR  ROGERS  Cox. 


One  distinguished  visitor  was  welcomed  by  the 
American  people  as  they  welcomed  their  own  sons  — 
King  Albert,  of  Belgium,  who  made  an  extensive 
tour  of  the  United  States  in  the  summer  of  1919. 


KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS 

How  spoke  the  King,  in  his  crucial  hour  vic 
torious? 
The  words  of  a  high  decision,  few,  but  glorious. 


THE  LEAGUE  OF  NATIONS 


677 


What  was  the  choice  he  made,  that  all  fear 

surmounted? 
The  choice  of  a  man  —  that  leaves  not  the 

soul  uncounted. 

What  did  the  King,  in  bitter  defeat  and 
sorrow? 

He  stood  as  a  god,  foreseeing  a  great  to 
morrow. 

How  fought  the  King?   In  silent  and  stern 

persistence; 
Patience  and  power  within,  and  hope  in  the 

distance. 

What  was  the  gift  he  won,  in  the  fire  that  tried 
him? 

The  deathless  love  of  his  own,  who  fought  be 
side  him. 

What  is  his  crown,  the  noblest  of  all  for  wear 
ing? 

The  homage  of  hearts  that  beat  for  his  splen 
did  bearing. 

Robe  and  sceptre  and  crown  —  what  are  these 

for  holding? 
Vesture  and  sign  for  his  spirit's  royal  moulding. 

What  speaks  he  now,  in  the  hour  of  faith  vic 
torious? 
Words  of  a  quiet  gladness,  few,  but  glorious. 

Then,  as  we  greet  him,  what  shall  be  ours  to 

render? 
Silence  that  shines,  and  speech  that  is  proud 

and  tender! 

MARION  COUTHOUY  SMITH. 


Meanwhile,  at  Paris,  the  Peace  Conference,  under 
the  leadership  of  President  Woodrow  Wilson,  who 
had  broken  all  precedents  by  going  to  Europe,  was 
struggling  with  the  peace  treaty  For  America,  the 
great  conflict  had  been  a  war  to  end  war,  and  the 
President  insisted  that  provisions  to  establish  a 
League  of  Nations  should  be  made  an  integral  part 
of  the  treaty. 

THE  FAMILY  OF  NATIONS 

WITH  that  pathetic  impudence  of  youth, 
America,  half-formed,  gigantic  and  uncouth, 
Stretching  great  limbs,  in  something  of  sur 
prise 
Beholds  new  meaning  written  on  the  skies. 


Out  of  the  granite,  Time  has  reared  a  State 
Haughty  and  fearless,  awkward,  passionate  — 
For  all  his  dreaming  and  his  reckless  boast, 
Betrayed  by  those  whom  he  has  trusted  most. 

Years  of  stern  peril  knit  that  welded  frame, 
Banded  those  arms  and  set  that  heart  aflame, 
Burdened  those  loins  with  vigor  of  increase, 
Gave  to  his  hand  a  weapon  forged  to  peace. 

He  cannot  turn  the  discovering  hour  aside, 
He  feels  the  stir  that  will  not  be  denied, 
And  in  the  family  the  Nations  plan 
Forgets  the  boy  and  finds  himself  a  man! 
WILLARD  WATTLES. 


After  months  of  struggle  and  negotiation,  this 
purpose  was  achieved,  and  on  July  10,  1919,  the 
President  laid  the  treaty  before  the  Senate  for  confir 
mation.  Strong  opposition  to  the  League  of  Nations 
developed  immediately,  on  the  ground  that  it  inter 
fered  with  America's  independence  and  freedom  of 
action,  and  various  "reservations"  were  proposed, 
limiting  America's  participation.  These  the  Presi 
dent  refused  to  accept,  and  finally,  after  eight  months 
of  bitter  debate,  largely  partisan  and  personal,  the 
Senate  rejected  the  treaty  March  19,  1920. 


THE  LEAGUE  OF  NATIONS 

Lo,  Joseph  dreams  his  dream  again, 
And  Joan  leads  her  armies  in  the  night, 
And  somewhere  near,  the  Master  from  His 

cross 

Lifts  his  hurt  hands  and  heals  the  world  again ! 
For  from  the  great  red  welter  of  the  world, 
Out  from  the  tides  of  its  red  suffering 
Comes  the  slow  sunrise  of  the  ancient  dream — 
Is  flung  the  glory  of  its  bright  imagining. 
See  how  it  breaks  in  beauty  on  the  world, 
Shivers  and  shudders  on  its  trembling  way — 
Shivers  and  waits  and  trembles  to  be  born ! 

America,  young  daughter  of  the  gods,  swing 

out, 

Strong  in  the  beauty  of  virginity, 
Fearless  in  thine  unquestioned  leadership, 
And  hold  the  taper  to  the  nations'  torch, 
And  light  the  hearthfires  of  the  halls  of  home. 
Thine  must  it  be  to  break  an  unpathed  way, 
To  lift  the  torch  for  world's  in-brothering  — 
To  bring  to  birth  this  child  of  all  the  earth. 
Formed  of  the  marriage  of  all  nations; 


678 


POEMS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY 


Else  shall  we  go,  the  head  upon  the  breast, 
A  Cain  without  a  country,  a  Judas  at  the 
board! 

MARY  SIEGRIST. 


BEYOND  WARS 

FOR  THE  LEAGUE  OF  NATIONS 

"if  HEN  will  a  quiet  gather  round  the  door, 
And  settle  on  those  evening  fields  again, 
Where  women  watch  the  slow,  home-coming 
men 

Across   brown  acres    hoofed    and    hurt   no 
more, 

The  sound  of  children's  feet  be  on  the  floor, 
When  lamps  are  lit,  and  stillness  deeper  falls, 
Unbroken,  save  where  cattle  in  their  stalls 

Keep  munching  patiently  upon  their  store. 

Only  a  scar  beside  the  pasture  gate, 
A  torn  and  naked  tree  upon  the  hill, 
What  times  remembered,  will  remind  them 

still 

Of  long  disastrous  days  they  knew  of  late; 
Till  these,  too,  yield  for  sweet,  accustomed 

things,  — 

And  a  man  ploughs,  a  woman  sews  and 
sings. 

DAVID  MORTON. 


It  was  a  revival  of  the  old  idea  of  "splendid  isola 
tion  "  on  the  part  of  men  whose  gaze  was  backward 
and  who  had  learned  nothing  from  the  war.  To  all 
others,  however,  it  is  evident  that  America  must 
take  her  place  with  the  other  peoples  of  the  earth  at 
the  council-table  of  the  League  of  Nations,  and  do 
her  part  toward  the  establishment  of  peace  and  lib 
erty  throughout  the  world. 


"WHEN  THERE  IS  PEACE" 

"WHEN  there  is  Peace,  our  land  no  more 
Will  be  the  land  we  knew  of  yore." 
Thus  do  our  facile  seers  foretell 
The  truth  that  none  can  buy  or  sell 
And  e'en  the  wisest  must  ignore. 


When  we  have  bled  at  every  pore, 
Shall  we  still  strive  for  gear  and  store? 
Will  it  be  heaven?  Will  it  be  hell? 
When  there  is  Peace? 

This  let  us  pray  for,  this  implore: 
That,  all  base  dreams  thrust  out  at  door, 
We  may  in  loftier  aims  excel 
And,  like  men  waking  from  a  spell, 
Grow  stronger,  nobler,  than  before, 
When  there  is  Peace. 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

AFTER  THE  WAR 

AFTER  the  war  —  I   hear  men   ask  —  what 

then? 
As  though  this  rock-ribbed  world,  sculptured 

with  fire, 

And  bastioned  deep  in  the  ethereal  plan. 
Can  never  be  its  morning  self  again 
Because  of  this  brief  madness,  man  with  man; 
As  though  the  laughing  elements  should  tire, 
The  very  seasons  in  their  order  reel; 
As  though  indeed  yon  ghostly  golden  wheel 
Of  stars  should  cease  from  turning,  or  the  moon 
Befriend  the  night  no  more,  or  the  wild  rose 
Forget  the  world,  and  June  be  no  more  June. 

How  many  wars  and  long-forgotten  woes 
Unnumbered,  nameless,  made  a  like  despair 
In  hearts  long  stilled;  how  many  suns  have 

set 

On  burning  cities  blackening  the  air,  — 
Yet  dawn  came  dreaming  back,  her  lashes  wet 
With  dew,  and  daisies  in  her  innocent  hair. 
Nor  shall,  for  this,  the  soul's  ascension  pause, 
Nor  the  sure  evolution  of  the  laws 
That  out  of  foulness  lift  the  flower  to  sun, 
And  out  of  fury  forge  the  evening  star. 

Deem  not  Love's  building  of  the  world  un 
done  — 

Far  Love's  beginning  was,  her  end  is  far; 
By  paths  of  fire  and  blood  her  feet  must  climb. 
Seeking  a  loveliness  she  scarcely  knows, 
Whose  meaning  is  beyond  the  reach  of  Time. 
RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 


NOTES  AND  INDEXES 


NOTES 


Page  3.  THE  STORY  OF  VINLAND.  The  dis 
covery  of  America  by  the  Norsemen  is  as  well 
authenticated  as  any  other  fact  of  tenth-century 
history,  and  much  better  authenticated  than 
most.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  substan 
tial  accuracy  of  the  Icelandic  chronicle,  and 
Mr.  Lanier  has  followed  it  very  closely. 

Page  3.  Stout  Are  Marson.  Are  Marsson. 
The  stories  concerning'  him  and  "  Huitramauna- 
land  "  are  believed  to  be  purely  fanciful,  an 
embroidery  of  fiction  upon  the  historical  back 
ground  of  the  chronicles.  There  is  no  evidence 
that  the  Norsemen  ever  got  farther  south  than 
Cape  Cod,  or,  at  most,  Point  Judith. 

Page  7.  Mid-ships  with  iron  keel.  The  Norse 
boats  had  neither  "iron  keel"  nor  "ribs  of 
steel."  Keel  and  ribs  were  made  of  oak,  and 
no  evidence  has  been  found  of  metallic  sheath 
ing.  The  size  of  these  ships  is  usually  under 
estimated.  They  were  larger,  stronger,  and 
more  seaworthy  than  those  of  Columbus.  There 
is  one  in  the  museum  at  Christiania  seventy- 
eight  feet  long,  seventeen  feet  beam,  and  nearly 
six  feet  in  depth.  She  carried  a  crew  of  at  least 
thirty-five  men.  Henry  Hudson's  Half  Moon 
carried  a  crew  of  only  sixteen. 

Page  7.  The  lofty  tower.  The  old  stone  tower 
at  Newport,  around  whose  origin  controversy 
raged  for  many  years,  but  which  is  now  be 
lieved  to  have  been  built  by  Benedict  Arnold, 
governor  of  Newport,  about  Iti76,for  a  windmill. 
The  reader  is  referred  to  Palfrey's  "  History 
of  New  England,"  i,  57 ;  Fiske's  "  Discovery  of 
America,"  i,  214  ;  and  Drake's  "  New  England 
Legends  and  Folk-lore,"  393. 

Page  7.  Beyond  the  limits  he  had  vainly  set. 
The  Pillars  of  Hercules,  Gibraltar  and  Cape 
Serra. 

Page  9.  St.  Stephen's  cloistered  hall.  The 
conference  was  held  at  the  Dominican  convent 
of  St.  Stephen,  at  Salamanca. 

Page  10.     Cordova's  sage.    Seneca. 

Page  12.  The  far-seeing  Marchioness.  Bea 
trix  de  Bobadilla,  Marchioness  of  Moya,  the 
bosom  friend  of  the  Queen,  and  a  devoted  ad 
mirer  of  Columbus.  She  happened  to  be  with 
the  Queen  when  Santangel  rushed  in  demand 
ing  audience  and  told  of  Colnmbus's  departure, 
and  added  her  eloquence  to  his. 

Page  14.  Pedro  Gutierrez.  Pilot  of  the  Santa 
Maria. 

Page  14.  Sanchez  of  Segovia.  Roderigo  San 
chez,  inspector-general  of  the  armament. 

Page  1(5.  A  Castilla  y  d  Leon.  "  To  Castile 
and  Leon  Columbus  gave  a  new  world."  This 
was  the  motto  annexed  to  the  coat  of  arms 
granted  to  Columbus. 

Page  21.  The  shining  Cepango.  Cipango  was 
the  name  given  by  Marco  Polo  to  an  island  east 


of  Asia,  supposed  to  be  the  modern  Japan.  It 
was  Cipango  which  Columbus  and  all  the  voy 
agers  for  half  a  century  after  him  were  seek 
ing. 

Page  25.  Old  Las  Casas.  Bartolomg  de  las 
Casas  (1474-156(5),  a  Spanish  Dominican,  cele 
brated  as  a  defender  of  the  Indians  against 
their  Spanish  conquerors. 

Page  30.  Moscoso.  Luis  de  Moscoso,  who 
took  charge  of  the  expedition  after  De  Soto's 
death. 

Page  30.  Six  thousand  of  our  foemen.  The 
native  loss  was  greatly  exaggerated.  It  proba 
bly  did  not  exceed  five  hundred. 

Page  30.  And  eighty-two  of  Spain.  The 
Spanish  loss  was  170.  The  scene  of  the  battle 
is  supposed  to  have  been  what  is  now  known  as 
Choctaw  Bluff,  in  Clarke  County,  Alabama. 

Page  31.  The  cities  of  the  Zuni.  Coronado's 
expedition  reached  Cibola  early  in  July,  1540, 
and  a  few  days  later  carried  it  by  storm  and 
subdued  the  whole  district,  but  found  no  trea 
sure.  A  detailed  account  of  the  expedition  will 
be  found  in  Winsor's  u  Narrative  and  Critical 
History  of  America,"  ii,  473-503. 

Page  34.  Good  llernard.  Bernard  of  Cluny, 
a  French  Benedictine  monk  of  the  twelfth  cen 
tury,  author  of  "  De  Contemptu  Mundi,"  popu 
larly  known  through  Neale's  translation,  "Jeru 
salem  the  Golden." 

Page  34.  Do  not  fear.  The  last  words  Gil 
bert  is  known  to  have  spoken  were  the  famous 
'*  We  are  as  near  to  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land." 
These  are  said  to  have  been  heard  on  board  the 
companion  ship,  the  Hind,  a  short  time  before 
the  Squirrel  disappeared. 

Page  38.  POCAHONTAS.  This  imaginative 
tale,  from  which  all  other  narratives  of  the 
event  are  derived,  appears  in  the  second  chap 
ter  of  the  third  book  of  Smith's  "  The  Generall 
Historic  of  Virginia,  New  England,  and  the 
Summer  Isles"  (London,  1622),  and  is  as  fol 
lows:  — 

"  At  last  they  brought  him  to  Meronoco  moco, 
where  was  Powhatan,  their  emperor.  Here 
more  than  two  hundred  of  these  grim  courtiers 
stood  wondering  at  him  as  he  had  been  a 
monster,  till  Powhatan  and  his  train  had  put 
themselves  in  their  greatest  braveries.  Before 
a  fire,  upon  a  seat  like  a  bedstead,  he  sat  cov 
ered  with  a  great  robe,  made  of  Rarowcun 
skins,  and  all  the  tails  hanging  by.  On  either 
hand  did  sit  a  young  wench  of  16  or  18  years, 
and  along  on  each  side  of  the  house,  two  rows 
of  men,  and  behind  them  as  many  women,  with 
all  their  heads  and  shoulders  painted  red  ;  many 
of  their  heads  bedecked  with  the  white  down 
of  birds  ;  but  every  one  w?.th  something:  and  a 
great  chain  of  white  beads  about  their  necks. 


682 


NOTES 


At  his  entrance  before  the  King,  all  the  people 
gave  a  great  shout.  The  queen  of  Appamatuck 
was  appointed  to  bring  him  water  to  wash  his 
hands,  and  another  brought  him  a  bunch  of 
feathers,  instead  of  a  towel  to  dry  them :  hav 
ing  feasted  him  after  their  best  barbarous  man 
ner  they  could,  a  long  consultation  was  held, 
but  the  conclusion  was,  two  great  stones  were 
brought  before  Powhatan ;  then  as  many  as 
could  laid  hand  on  him,  dragged  him  to  them, 
and  thereon  laid  his  head,  and  being  ready  with 
their  clubs  to  beat  out  his  brains,  Pocahontas, 
the  king's  dearest  daughter,  when  no  entreaty 
could  prevail,  got  his  head  in  her  arms,  and 
laid  her  own  upon  his  to  save  him  from  death  : 
whereat  the  emperor  was  contented  he  should 
live  to  make  him  hatchets,  and  her  bells,  beads, 
and  copper:  for  they  thought  him  as  well  of  all 
occupations  as  themselves.  For  the  king  him 
self  will  make  his  own  robes,  slices,  bows,  ar 
rows,  pots;  plant,  hunt,  or  do  anything  so  well 
as  the  rest. 

"  They  say  he  bore  a  pleasant  show, 
But  sure  his  heart  was  sad, 
For  who  cau  pleasant  be,  and  rest, 
That  lives  in  fear  and  dread  : 
And  having  life  suspected,  doth 
It  still  suspected  lead." 

In  spite  of  which,  it  is  generally  agreed 
among  historians  that  no  such  incident  ever 
occurred.  One  can  only  remark  that  Smith 
seems  to  have  had  a  genius  for  imaginative  de 
tail  worthy  of  Defoe. 

Page  40.  Richard  Rich  was  a  soldier  and 
adventurer  who  accompanied  Captain  Newport 
in  the  Sea  Venture,  and  experienced  all  the 
dangers  and  hardships  of  that  remarkable  voy 
age.  He  finally  got  back  to  England  in  1610, 
and  on  the  first  day  of  October,  published  this 
poem,  his  object  being,  as  he  says  in  a  brief 
and  broadly  humorous  preface,  to  "  spread  the 
truth  "  about  the  new  colony,  whose  attractions 
had  so  impressed  him  that  he  was  resolved  to 
return  thither  with  Captain  Newport  in  the  fol 
lowing  year.  He  speaks  of  another  book  of 
his  soon  to  be  issued,  also  devoted  to  a  de 
scription  of  the  colony,  but  no  copy  of  it  has 
ever  been  discovered,  nor  is  anything  known 
concerning  Rich's  subsequent  adventures.  A 
copy  of  his  "  Newes  from  Virginia  "  was  found 
in  1864  in  Lord  Charlemont's  collection,  and  is 
now  in  the  Huth  Library. 

Page  40.  Gates.  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  lieu 
tenant-general  of  the  new  company. 

Page  40.  Newport.  Christopher  Newport 
(1565P-1617)  had  had  an  adventurous  career  as 
a  corsair  in  the  West  Indies,  where  he  sacked 
four  Spanish  towns,  and  destroyed  no  less  than 
twenty  Spanish  vessels. 

Page  40.  Eleaven  months,  June  2, 1609-May 
24,  1610. 

Page  40.  Inhabited  by  hogges.  The  descend 
ants,  presumably,  of  those  left  by  the  Span 
iards. 

Page  40.  Two  only.  Six  of  the  company 
died  on  the  island. 

Page  40.    A  son  and  daughter.    These  details 


are  confirmed  in  "  A  True  Repertory  of  the 
Wracke  and  Redemption  of  Sir  Thomas  Gates 
upon  and  from  the  Islands  of  the  Bermudas," 
or  from  Silas  Jourdan's  "  Discovery  of  the  Bar- 
mudas  ...  by  Sir  T.  Gates  .  .  .  with  divera 
others  "  (1610)  ;  to  both  of  which  Shakespeare 
is  said  to  have  been  indebted  for  the  ground 
work  of  "  The  Tempest." 

Page  43.  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  POCAHOKTAS. 
There  is  some  doubt  as  to  whether  the  mar 
riage  occurred  in  1613  or  1614.  The  former  has 
been  the  more  generally  accepted  date,  but  the 
compiler  has  adopted  the  latter  on  the  au 
thority  of  Mr.  Wyndham  Robertson,  who  has 
made  an  exhaustive  study  of  the  question,  the 
results  of  which  were  embodied  in  a  paper  read 
before  the  Virginia  Historical  Society  in  18(>0. 
Mr.  Robertson  proves  pretty  conclusively  that 
April  5,  1614,  is  the  correct  date. 

Page  43.  Sparkling- Water.  The  English 
meaning  of  Pocahontas. 

Page  45.  The  town  shall  not  rise  from  its 
ashes  again.  Jamestown,  at  the  time  it  was 
burned,  consisted  of  a  church,  statehouse,  and 
about  eighteen  dwellings,  mostly  of  brick.  Only 
the  tower  of  the  church  and  a  few  chimneys 
were  left  standing. 

Page  45.  BACON'S  EPITAPH.  This  remark 
able  poem  has  been  preserved  in  an  anonymous 
"  History  of  Bacon's  and  Ingram's  Rebellion," 
known  as  "  The  Burwell  Papers,"  and  printed 
by  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society  in 
1814.  The  ';  Burwell  Papers"  have  been  at 
tributed  to  a  planter  named  Cotton  of  Acquis 
Creek,  but  this  is  only  conjecture,  and  there 
seems  to  be  absolutely  no  clue  to  the  author 
ship  of  the  elegy,  which  will  probably  always 
remain  one  of  the  literary  mysteries  of  America. 

Page  48.  THE  DOWNFALL  OF  PIRACY.  This 
is  thought  to  be  one  of  the  ballads  referred  to 
by  Benjamin  Franklin  in  his  autobiography. 
He  says :  "  I  now  took  a  fancy  to  poetry,  and 
made  some  little  pieces.  My  brother,  thinking 
it  might  turn  to  account,  encouraged  me,  and 
put  me  on  composing  occasional  ballads.  One 
was  called  '  The  Lighthouse  Tragedy,'  and 
contained  an  account  of  the  drowning  of  Cap 
tain  Worthilake,  with  his  two  daughters  ;  the 
other  was  a  sailor  song  on  the  taking  of  Teach 
(or  Blackboard )  the  pirate." 

It  had  been  thought  for  many  years  that  both 
of  these  ballads  were  lost,  but  The  Downfall 
of  Piracy  "  was  discovered  by  Dr.  Edward  Ev 
erett  Hale  in  a  volume  entitled  "Some  Real 
Sea-Songs,"  edited  by  Mr.  John  Ashton,  and 
published  in  London.  There  is,  in  Dr.  Hale's 
opinion,  no  doubt  that  it  is  one  of  the  Frank 
lin  ballads.  The  news  of  the  fight  probably 
reached  Boston  about  the  first  of  January, 
1719,  and  the  ballad  was  no  doubt  written  soon 
after.  Of  "The  Lighthouse  Tragedy"  no 
trace  has  been  found. 

Page  50.  'Twas  Juet  spoke.  Robert  Juet 
accompanied  Hudson  as  mate  on  his  previous 
voyage,  and  on  this  one  acted  as  clerk.  He 
kept  a  curious  journal  of  the  voyage,  which  has 
been  preserved  in  Purchas's  third  volume. 


NOTES 


683 


Page  52.  THE  PRAISE  OF  NEW  NETHER- 
LAND.  The  full  title,  in  English,  is  "  The 
Praise  of  New  Netherland :  wherein  are  briefly 
and  truly  shown  the  excellent  qualities  which 
it  possesses  in  the  purity  of  the  air,  fertility  of 
the  soil,  production  of  the  cattle,  abundance  of 
game  and  fish,  with  its  advantages  for  naviga 
tion  and  commerce."  It  was  printed  at  Am 
sterdam  "for  Jacobus  Van  Der  Fuyk,  book 
seller  in  the  Still-Alley,  Anno  1661."  Steendaiu 
had  returned  to  Amsterdam,  it  is  thought  only 
on  a  visit,  at  the  time  of  the  publication  of  this 
poem.  It  is  dedicated  to  "  The  Honorable  Cor- 
nelis  van  Ruyven,  councillor  and  secretary  of 
the  Hon.  West  India  Company  there.  Faithful 
and  very  upright  Promoter  of  New  Nether- 
land." 

Page  54.  Nock  vaster.  A  play  upon  words, 
a  whimsical  device  adopted  by  Steendam. 
Steendam  means  "  stone  dam,"  and  nock  vaster, 
"still  firmer."  Notwithstanding  which  he 
seems  to  have  been  "  a  man  of  very  unsettled 
purposes  of  life." 

Page  58.  Bartholomew  Gosnold^s  '  headlands^ 
Gosnold  commanded  an  expedition  which,  in 
1602,  discovered  Cape  Cod  and  Martha's  Vine 
yard,  both  of  which  were  named  by  him. 

Page  63.  THE  EXPEDITION  TO  WESSAGUS- 
SET.  Mr.  Longfello_w  has  followed  the  account 
of  this  expedition  given  in  Winslow's  Relation 
of  "  Standish's  Expedition  against  the  Indians 
of  Weymouth."  He  has,  however,  turned  the 
incident  of  Standish's  killing  of  the  chiefs, 
Pecksuot  and  Wituwamat,  into  a  much  more 
open  and  heroic  piece  of  conduct  than  the 
chronicle  admits.  The  killing  really  occurred 
in  a  room  into  which  Standish  and  a  few  of  his 
men  had  enticed  them.  This  was  the  first  In 
dian  blood  shed  by  the  Pilgrims.  A  general 
battle  followed  in  the  open  field,  from  which 
the  Indians  fled  and  in  which  no  lives  were 
lost. 

"  Concerning  the  killin?  of  those  poor  In 
dians,"  wrote  Robinson  of  Leyden  (December 
16,  1623),  "  of  which  we  heard  first  by  report 
and  since  by  more  certain  relation,  O  how 
happy  a  thing  had  it  been,  if  you  had  converted 
some  before  you  had  killed  any ! " 

Page  65.  NEW  ENGLAND'.-*  ANNOYANCES. 
These  verses  are  undoubtedly  of  a  very  early 
date,  probably  about  1630.  Rufus  W.  Griswold, 
in  his  introduction  to  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
America  "  (Philadelphia,  1854),  calls  them  "  the 
first  verses  by  a  colonist,"  a  statement  which  is, 
of  course,  impossible  of  proof.  They  appeared 
originally  in  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Col 
lections,  with  the  statement  that  they  were 
"  taken  memoriter,  in  1785,  from  the  lips  of  an 
old  lady  at  the  advanced  age  of  06." 

Page  73.  ANNE  HUTCHINSON'S  EXILE.  The 
basis  of  the  famous  Antinomian  controversy,  as 
it  was  called,  was  the  promulgation,  by  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  of  "two  dangerous  errors:  first, 
that  the  person  of  the  Holy  Ghost  dwells  in  a 
justified  person  ;  second,  that  no  sanctification 
can  help  to  evidence  to  us  our  justification." 
The  words  are  Winthrop's.  To  these  two  doc 


trines  Mrs.  Hutchinson  attached  so  much  im 
portance  that  she  undertook  the  public  minis 
tration  of  them.  Sir  Harry  Vane,  the  young 
governor  of  the  colony,  was  one  of  her  con 
verts,  but  in  May,  1637,  Winthrop  was  chosen 
governor  instead  of  Vane,  and  at  once  took 
steps  to  suppress  the  Antinomians,  which  re 
sulted  in  the  banishment  of  the  more  promi 
nent  among  them. 

Page  73.  The  father.  William  Hutchinson, 
who  had  accompanied  his  family  from  England. 

Page  73.  The  boys  and  girls.  There  _were  fif 
teen  children,  so  that  Portsmouth,  which  they 
founded,  started  off  with  a  larger  population 
than  most  towns  of  the  period. 

Page  75.  In  the  ruler's  seat.  Underbill  was 
chosen  governor  of  the  "  Passataquack  men" 
in  October,  1638. 

Page  83.  Pettaquamscut  town.  South  Kings 
ton,  Rhode  Island.  The  Narragausett  strong 
hold  lay  sixteen  miles  away,  in  what  is  now  the 
town  of  North  Kingston. 

Page  83.  George  Fox.  Founder  of  the  So 
ciety  of  Friends,  who  visited  America  in  1671- 
72. 

Page  84.  Connecticut  had  sent  her  men.  Of  the 
army  of  a  thousand,  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven  were  furnished  by  Massachusetts,  and  the 
remainder  by  Connecticut  and  Plymouth. 

Page  X5.  ON  A  FORTIFICATION  AT  BOSTON 
B  EGUN  BY  WOMEN.  This  poem  occurs  on  pages 
30-31  of  "New  England's  Crisis,"  and  not, 
as  Duyckinck  states,  at  the  beginning.  The 
author,  Benjamin  Tompson,  "learned  school 
master  and  physician,  and  y"  renowned  poet  of 
New  England,"  as  the  epitaph  upon  his  tomb 
stone  puts  it,  was  born  at  Braintree,  Massachu 
setts,  July  14,  1642,  graduated  from  Harvard 
in  1662,  and  after  serving  as  master  of  the  Bos 
ton  Latin  School  and  Cambridge  Preparatory 
School,  died  at  Cambridge  in  1675. 

Page  85.  Sudbury^s  battle.  The  Indian  at 
tack  was  made  early  in  the  morning  of  April 
21,  and  lasted  practically  all  the  day.  News 
of  it  soon  reached  the  neighboring  towns,  and 
relief  parties  were  started  forward.  The  In 
dians  were  on  the  lookout  for  them.  A  party 
of  eleven  men  from  Concord  walked  into  an 
ambush  and  only  one  escaped  ;  eighteen  troop 
ers  from  Boston  finally  got  into  the  town  with 
a  loss  of  four  ;  and  a  party  of  fifty  from  Marl 
boro,  under  Captain  Samuel  Wadsworth,  were 
caught  in  an  adroitly  prepared  trap,  out  of 
which  but  thirteen  came  alive. 

Page  99.  Charles  of  Estienne.  Charles  de 
St.  Estienne  was  a  son  of  Claude  de  la  Tour,  a 
nobleman  who,  in  1610,  had  been  forced  by 
poverty  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  New  World. 
They  came  to  Port  Royal,  shared  in  the  vicis 
situdes  of  the  little  settlement,  and  were  among 
those  who  took  to  the  woods  after  its  destruc 
tion  by  the  English.  Among  the  fugitives  was 
the  Sieur  de  Biencourt,  who  held  a  grant  to  the 
country  about  Port  Royal.  They  built  some 
rude  cabins,  cultivated  little  patches  of  ground, 
and  raised  a  fort  of  logs  and  earth  near  Cape 
Sable,  which  they  called  Fort  St.  Louis.  Bien- 


684 


NOTES 


court  died  in  1623,  and  Charles  de  la  Tour  took 
command  of  the  fort  and  assumed  control  of 
Biencourt's  property,  claiming  that  Biencourt 
had  so  willed  it.  Another  fort  was  built  on  the 
River  St.  John,  and  La  Tour  was  appointed  by 
the  king  lieutenant-governor  over  Fort  Louis, 
Port  la  Tour,  and  dependencies. 

At  about  the  same  time,  Richelieu  sent  out 
an  expedition  to  take  formal  possession  of  New 
France,  and  named  Isaac  de  Launay  de  Razilly 
governor  of  all  Acadia.  He  made  his  settle 
ment  at  La  Heve,  on  the  Atlantic  coast  of  Nova 
Scotia,  but  died  in  1635,and  his  deputy,  Charles 
de  Menou,  Chevalier  D'Aulnay,  asserted  his 
right  to  command  in  the  colony.  Thereupon 
began  between  him  and  Charles  de  la  Tour  that 
famous  struggle  for  the  possession  of  Acadia 
which  forms  so  romantic  a  passage  in  American 
history. 

Page  101.  Pentagoet  shall  rue.  La  Tour 
was  unable  to  avenge  himself,  but  time  did  it 
for  him.  D'Aulnay  was  drowned  in  1650,  and 
La  Tour  was  appointed  governor  of  Acadia.  In 
lf>53  he  married  D'Auluay's  widow,  Jeanne  de 
Motin. 

Page  105.  PENTUCKET.  The  Indian  name 
for  Haverhill. 

Page  106.  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT.  This  bal 
lad,  which  is  of  extraordinary  interest  as  the  old 
est  American  war  ballad  extant,  was  preserved 
in  "  The  |  History  |  of  the  |  Wars  of  New  Eng 
land  with  the  Eastern  Indians,  I  or  a  |  Narra 
tive  |  of  their  continued  perfidy  and  cruelty,  | 
from  the  10th  of  August,  1703,  |  to  the  Peace 
renewed  13th  of  July,  1713,  |  and  from  the  25th 
of  July,  1722,  |  to  their  Submission  15th  Decem 
ber,  1725,  |  which  was  Ratified  August  5th, 
1726.  |  By  Samuel  Penhallow,  Esqr.  |  Boston, 
172(5."  This  was  reprinted  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio, 
in  1859,  and  the  ballad  occurs  on  page  129. 

Page  106.  Of  worthy  Captain  Lovewell.  Not 
much  is  known  of  Lovewell.  He  was  a  son  of 
Zaccheus  Lovewell,  an  ensign  in  the  army  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  who  had  come  to  America 
and  settled  at  Dunstable,  where  he  died  at  the 
great  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years,  — 
"the  oldest  white  man  who  ever  died  in  New 
Hampshire."  He  left  three  sons,  the  youngest 
of  whom  was  John,  the  hero  of  Pigwacket. 
At  the  time  of  the  fight,  he  was  about  thirty- 
three  years  of  age,  and  had  a  wife  and  two  or 
three  children.  After  the  Indian  attack  on 
Dunstable  in  1624,  he  and  some  others  peti 
tioned  the  House  of  Representatives  at  Boston 
to  make  some  provision  for  a  force  to  be  sent 
against  the  savages.  The  Representatives  voted 
that  all  such  volunteers  should  be  paid  two 
shillings  and  sixpence  a  day,  and  promised 
large  rewards  for  the  scalps  of  male  Indians 
old  enough  to  fight.  A  company  of  thirty  was 
raised,_  with  Lovewell  as  captain,  and  captured 
one  prisoner  and  took  one  scalp.  A  second  ex 
pedition  brought  back  ten  scalps  and  some 
other  booty,  and  the  third  expedition  culmi 
nated  in  the  battle  at  Pigwacket. 

Page  106.  'T was  nigh  unto  Pigwacket.  The 
old  name  for  Fryeburg.  Pigwacket  was  at  the 


time  the  principal  village  of  the  Ossipe  tribe. 
Also  spelled  Pequawket. 

Page  108.  They  killed  Lieutenant  Bobbins. 
Robbins  was  a  native  of  Chelmsford.  He  was 
so  badly  wounded  that  he  had  to  be  left  on  the 
ground.  He  desired  his  companions  to  charge 
his  gun  and  leave  it  with  him,  saying,  "As  the 
Indians  will  come  in  the  morning  to  scalp  me, 
I  will  kill  one  more  of  them  if  I  can." 

Page  108.  Good  young  Frye.  Jonathan  Frye, 
the  chaplain  of  the  company,  was  the  only  son 
of  Captain  James  Frye,  of  Andover,  and  had 
graduated  at  Harvard  only  two  years  before. 
It  is  a  curious  commentary  on  the  taste  of  the 
time  that  he  should  be  commended  for  scalping 
Indians,  as  well  as  killing  them  ;  the  scalping, 
however,  was  the  result  not  of  ferocity  but  of 
the  large  rewards  offered  by  the  Boston  legis 
lature  for  these  trophies. 

Page  108.  Wyinans  Captain  made.  Ensign 
Seth  Wymans,  or  Wyman,  belonged  in  Woburn, 
and  commanded  through  the  day,  after  the 
fall  of  his  superiors  at  the  first  fire.  He  so  dis 
tinguished  himself  that  he  was  given  a  cap 
tain's  commission,  and  his  admiring  townsmen 
presented  him  with  a  silver-hilted  sword. 

Page  108.  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT.  From  Col 
lections,  |  Historical  and  Miscellaneous ;  |  and 
|  Monthly  Literary  Journal:  |  [table  of  con 
tents]  Edited  by  J.  Farmer  and  J.  B.  Moore. 
|  Concord:  |  Published  by  J.  B.  Moore.  |  1824. 
Vol.  iii,  page  94. 

Page  108.  Anon,  there  eighty  Indians  rose. 
Penhallow  says  seventy,  Hutchinson  eighty, 
Williamson  sixty-three,  and  Belknap  forty-one. 

Page  111.  THE  BRITISH  LYON  ROUSED. 
From  Tilden's  |  miscellaneous  |  Poems,  |  on  | 
Divers  Occasions ;  |  Chiefly  to  Animate  & 
Rouse  |  the  |  Soldiers.  |  Printed  1756.  The 
little  volume  from  which  this  poem  was  taken 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  published  before 
the  Revolution.  For  a  long  time  nothing  what 
ever  was  known  of  the  author,  not  even  his 
first  name.  But  that  was  subsequently  dis 
covered  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Trumbull,  and  commu 
nicated  to  the  "New  York  Historical  Maga 
zine,"  iv,  72,  by  him.  This  account  seems  to 
have  been  overlooked  by  all  of  Tilden's  bio 
graphers.  Appleton's  Cyclopaedia  of  American 
Biography  fails  to  give  his  first  name,  nor  does 
any  history  or  cyclopaedia  of  American  litera 
ture  with  which  the  compiler  is  familiar. 

Page  112.  THE  SONG  OF  BRADDOCK'S  MEN. 
This  spirited  song  has  been  preserved  by  Mr. 
Winthrop  Sargent  in  his  excellent  monograph 
upon  the  Braddock  expedition,  published  by 
the  Pennsylvania  Historical  Society  in  1855. 
Mr.  Sargent  states  that  it  was  composed  in 
Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  while  the  army 
was  on  the  march  in  the  early  autumn  of  1755, 
and  that  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  authenticity. 
He  does  not  say  where  he  discovered  it. 

Page  112.  BRADDOCK'S  FATE.  It  will  be 
noticed  that  these  verses  were  composed  just 
six  weeks  after  the  battle  which  they  dpscribe, 
and  the  author  must  have  sat  down  to  them  at 
once  upon  hearing  the  news  of  the  defeat. 


NOTES 


685 


Page  113.     Old  sixty-six.    The  author. 

Page  114.  North  America.  It  is  worthy  of 
note  that  in  all  colonial  and  revolutionary 
poetry,  America  is  rhymed  with  such  words  as 
day,  say,  and  away. 

Page  114.  Te/esem.  A  name  which  Tilden 
gave  to  this  form  of  verse. 

Page  118.  Of  Wolfe'1  s  brave  deeds.  General 
James  Wolfe,  who  commanded  a  brigade,  and 
took  the  leading  part  in  the  assaults  on  the 
fortress,  on  one  occasion  plunging  into  the  sea 
at  the  head  of  his  grenadiers,  and  capturing  a 
battery  which  commanded  the  beach. 

Page  118.  AmhersCs  patriot  name.  Jeffrey 
(afterwards  Baron)  Amherst,  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  land  forces,  fourteen  thousand 
strong.  He  was  hotly  criticised  by  Wolfe  for 
his  blundering  conduct  of  the  campaign. 

Page  119.  The  tartans  of  Grant's  Highland 
ers.  Major  Grant,  of  the  Highlanders,  had  ob 
tained  permission  to  reconnoitre  the  fort,  and 
set  out  with  about  eight  hundred  men.  He 
reached  the  fort  on  September  14,  but,  relying 
on  his  supposed  superior  numbers,  divided  his 
force  in  such  a  way  that  the  different  parts 
could  not  support  each  other.  He  was  defeated 
in  detail,  his  force  cut  to  pieces,  and  himself 
taken  prisoner.  His  loss  was  nearly  three  hun 
dred. 

Page  119.  Loyalhanna.  Westmoreland  Coun 
ty,  Pennsylvania. 

Page  121.  Ned  Botwood.  Edward  Botwood, 
sergeant  in  the  grenadiers  of  the  Forty-seventh, 
or  Lascelles'  Regiment.  .  He  was  the  author  of 
the  verses  given  here,  which  were  written  on  the 
eve  of  the  expedition's  departure  from  Louis- 
burg,  and  continued  popular  with  the  British 
troops  throughout  the  Revolution.  He  was 
killed  during  an  unsuccessful  assault,  July  31. 

Page  122.  Then  Wolfe  he  took  his  leave.  A 
short  time  before  leaving  for  America,  Wolfe 
had  become  engaged  to  Katherine,  daughter 
of  Robert  Lowther. 

Page  122.  A  parley.  This  is,  of  course, 
purely  imaginary.  There  was  no  parley. 

Page  122.  Then  instant  from  his  horse.  Wolfe 
•was  not  on  horseback. 

Page  129.  THE  VIRGINIA  SONO.  When 
David  Garrick  wrote  "  Hearts  of  Oak  "as  an 
expression  of  English  patriotism,  he  little 
dreamed  that  he  was  furnishing  ammunition 
for  England's  enemies.  It  was  to  the  air  of  that 
song  that  the  most  popular  of  the  colonial  patri 
otic  songs  were  written,  and  it  was  probably 
better  known  than  any  of  our  national  songs  are 
to  us  to-day.  Such  versions  as  "  The  Virginia 
Song,"  "The  Patriot's  Appeal,"  "The  Massa 
chusetts  Song,"  and  "  The  Liberty  Song  "  were 
printed  on  broadside  sheets  and  in  newspaper 
columns  and  sung  in  village  meeting  and  city 
street  throughout  the  land,  awakening  immense 
enthusiasm. 

Page  131.  THE  LIBERTY  POLK.  From  "The 
Procession  with  the  Standard  of  Faction,  a  Can 
tata,"  a  four-page  folio  preserved  in  the  Du 
Simitiere  collection  of  broadsides. 

Page  132.     Who    carry   caps    and   pouches. 


"Pouches,"  perhaps  a  survival  of  the  days  of 
the  hand-grenade. 

Page  132.  CRISPUS  ATTUCKS.  Attucks  was  a 
resident  of  Framingham,  and  there  is  some  dif 
ference  of  opinion  as  to  whether  he  was  a  mu 
latto  or  half-breed  Indian.  His  only  claim  to 
remembrance  is  that  he  happened  to  be  in  the 
path  of  a  British  bullet  on  that  March  day  in 
Boston. 

Page  135.  A  NEW  SONG  CALLED  THE  GAS- 
PEE.  The  author  of  this  old  ballad  is  unknown. 
It  was  rescued  from  oblivion  by  Mr.  John  S. 
Taylor,  who  printed  it  in  his  "  Sketches  of  New 
port  and  its  Vicinity,"  New  York,  1842. 

Page  138.  Tremble !  for  know,  /,  Thomas 
Gage.  Gage  was  the  last  royal  governor  of 
Massachusetts,  and  the  best  hated. 

Page  139.  Against  Virginia's  hostile  land. 
Patrick  Henry's  famous  speech,  delivered  in 
1764  before  the  House  of  Burgesses,  had  never 
ceased  to  ring  in  the  ears  of  royalty,  and  the 
people  of  Virginia  had  long  been  regarded  as  a 
"  rebellious  band  that  must  be  broken." 

Page  139.  Hail,  Middlesex!  A  small  num 
ber  of  the  people  of  Middlesex  County,  Vir 
ginia,  early  in  1774,  had  adopted  some  Royalist 
"  resolves,"  an  event  which  gave  rise  to  the 
following  epigram  by  a  "  Lady  of  Pennsyl 
vania  " :  — 

To  manhood  he  makes  a  vain  pretence 
Who  wants  both  manly  form  and  sense; 
'T  is  but  the  form  and  not  the  matter, 
According  to  the  schoolmen's  clatter  ; 
From  such  a  creature.  Heaven  defend  her  !     . 
Each  lady  cries,  no  neuter  gender  ! 
But  when  a  number  of  such  creatures, 
With  women's  hearts  and  manly  features, 
Their  country's  generous  schemes  perplex, 
I  own  1  hate  this  Middle-sex. 

Page  139.  To  Murray  bend  the  humble  knee. 
John  Murray,  Earl  of  Dunmore,  royal  governor 
of  Virginia,  1770-1775.  __ 

Page  139.  Mesech  Weare.  Weare  was  presi 
dent  of  the  state  of  New  Hampshire  in  1776. 
His  verses  were  set  to  a  psalm  tune  and  widely 
sung. 

Page  140.  In  spite  of  Rice.  This  refers  to 
the  extensive  donations  sent  from  the  other  col 
onies  to  the  people  of  Boston. 

Page  140.  Rivinqton's  New  York  Gazetteer. 
This  paper,  the  principal  vehicle  of  Royalist 
poetry  during  the  Revolution,  was  established 
by  James  Rivington,  a  bookseller,  in  1773,  and 
printed  at  his  "ever  open  and  uninfluenced 
press."  In  the  autumn  of  1775  his  printing  outfit 
was  destroyed  by  a  patriot  mob ;  but  he  was 
soon  afterwards  appointed  King's  Printer  for 
the  colony,  furnished  with  a  new  outfit,  and 
started  "  Rivington's  New  York  Loyal  Ga 
zette."  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  changed  its 
title  to  "  Rivington's  Gazette  and  Universal 
Advertiser,"  but  it  died  of  starvation  in  1783. 

Page  141.  LIBERTY  TREE.  On  August  14, 
17fi5,  an  effigy  representing  Andrew  Oliver,  dis 
tributer  of  stamps  for  Boston,  was  found  hang 
ing  from  a  great  elm  opposite  the  Boylston 
Market.  A  mob  gathered  when  the  sheriff  tried 


686 


NOTES 


to  take  down  the  effigy,  the  stamp  office  was 
demolished,  and  Oliver  himself  was  compelled 
to  repair  to  the  tree  and  resign  his  commission. 
It  was  thenceforward  called  the  Liberty  Tree. 
Liberty  trees  were  afterwards  consecrated  in 
many  other  New  England  towns. 

Page  143.  Since  mad  Lee  now  commands  us. 
Major-General  Charles  Lee,  that  eccentric,  mo 
rose,  and  ill-fated  genius,  characterized  by 
Thomas  Paine  as  "above  all  monarchs  and  be 
low  all  scum." 

Page  143.  MASSACHUSETTS  SONG  OF  LIB 
ERTY.  This  song,  to  the  air  "  Hearts  of  Oak," 
became  almost  as  popular  as  "Adams  and  Lib 
erty  "  did  at  a  later  day.  Mrs.  Mercy  Warren, 
to  whom  it  is  attributed,  published  a  volume  of 
"  Poems,  Dramatic  and  Miscellaneous  "  (Bos 
ton,  1790),  dedicated  to  Washington. 

Page  144.  To  THE  BOSION  WOMEN.  From 
Upcott,  iv,  339. 

Page  144.  PAULREVERE'S  RIDE.  It  is  pos 
sible  that  Mr.  Longfellow  derived  the  story,  as 
told  ill  the  poem,  from  Revere's  account  of  the 
adventure  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Jeremy  Belknap, 
printed  in  Mass.  Hist.  Coll.  v.  The  publication 
of  the  poem  called  out  a  long  controversy  as  to 
the  accuracy  of  its  details. 

Page  147.  Then  Devens  looked.  Richard 
Devens,  a  member  of  the  Committee  of  Safety, 
of  which  Hancock  and  Warren  were  the  leading 
spirits. 

Page  147.  Then  haste  ye,  Prescott  and  Re 
vere.  Dr.  Samuel  Prescott,  of  Concord,  joined 
Revere  and  Dawes  at  Lexington  and  started 
with  them  for  Concord.  They  were  stopped 
by  a  British  patrol.  Prescott  escaped  by  leap 
ing  his  horse  over  the  roadside  wall  and  spurred 
on  to  Concord,  while  his  companions  were  taken 
prisoners,  but  soon  released. 

Page  147,  The  red-coats  .fire,  the  homespuns 
fall.  Eight  Americans  were  killed,  four  near 
the  spot  where  the  battle  monument  now  stands, 
and  four  others  while  escaping  over  the  fences. 
Their  names,  as  recorded  on  the  monument, 
were  Robert  Monroe,  Jonas  Parker,  Samuel 
Hadley,  Jonathan  Harrington,  Jr.,  Isaac  Mu/zy, 
Caleb  Harrington,  and  John  Brown,  of  Lexing 
ton,  and  Asahel  Porter,  of  Woburn. 

Page  148.  NEW  ENGLAND'S  CHEVY  CHASE. 
As  Lord  Percy,  at  the  head  of  the  relief  column, 
marched  through  Roxbury,  his  bands  playing 
"  Yankee  Doodle  "  in  derision  of  the  opponents 
he  was  soon  to  meet,  he  observed  a  boy  who 
seemed  to  be  exceedingly  amused.  He  stopped 
and  asked  the  boy  why  he  was  so  merry.  "  To 
think,"  said  the  boy,  "  how  you  will  dance  by 
and  by  to  Chevy  Chase."  Percy,  who  was  very 
superstitious,  was  worried  by  the  remark  all 
day.  Its  point  will  be  appreciated  when  it  is 
remembered  that  Percy  was  a  lineal  descendant 
of  the  Earl  Percy  who  was  slain  at  Chevy 
Chase. 

Page  149.  We  saw  Davis  fall  dead.  Captain 
Isaac  Davis,  of  the  Acton  company.  He_  and 
Abner  Hosmer  were  killed  as  the  Americans 
charged  the  British  stationed  at  the  North 
Bridge.  "I  haven't  a  man  that's  afraid  to 


go  !  "  he  had  exclaimed  as  he  wheeled  his  com 
pany  into  line  for  the  charge. 

Page  150.  We  W  rather  have  spent  it  this  way 
than  to  home.  One  of  the  veterans  of  the  fight 
made  this  very  remark  to  Edward  Everett. 

Page  153.  Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice.  The 
British  lost  65  killed,  180  wounded,  2h  captured ; 
the  Americans,  5i>  killed,  39  wounded,  5  missing. 

Pagel58.  KingDavid.  See  '2  Samuel  v, 23, 24. 

Page  159.  Yankee  Doodle.  Accounts  of  the 
origin  of  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  are  many  and  vari 
ous.  The  air  is  very  old,  and  nearly  every 
country  in  Europe  claims  it.  It  probably 
reached  Ei; gland  from  Holland,  and  in  the  days 
of  Charles  1  was  used  for  :  ome  verses  about 
Lydia  Lockett  and  Kittie  Fisher,  gay  ladies  of 
the  town.  Afterwards,  when  Cromwell  rode 
into  Oxford  on  a  pon3',  with  his  single  plume 
fastened  into  a  sort  of  knot  called  a  "  maca 
roni,"  the  Cavaliers  used  the  same  air  for  their 
derisive  verses.  The  story  goes  that  this  fuct 
was  recalled  by  Dr.  Richard  Shuckburg,  of  the 
Seventeenth  Foot,  when  the  queerly  garbed 
provincial  levies  presented  themselves,  in  June, 
1755,  at  the  camp  at  Albany,  to  take  part  in 
the  campaign  against  the  French.  He  wrote 
down  the  notes  of  the  air  and  got  the  regi 
mental  band  to  play  it.  It  was  taken  up  by 
(the  Americans  and  became  instantly  popular. 
Verses  innumerable  have  been  attached  to  the 
air,  the  best  known  of  which  are  "The  Yan 
kee's  Return  from  Camp  "  and  "  The  Battle  of 
the  Kegs." 

Page  160.  Edward  Bangs.  This  is  upon  the 
authority  of  Dr.  Edward  Everett  Hale,  who 
states  that  "  an  autograph  note  of  Judge 
Dawes,  of  the  Harvard  class  of  1777,  addressed 
to  my  father,  says  that  the  author  of  the  well- 
known  lines  was  Edward  Bangs,  who  graduated 
with  him.  Mr.  Bangs  had,  as  a  college  boy, 
joined  the  Middlesex  farmers  in  the  pursuit  of 
April  19,  1775.  He  was  afterward  a  judge  in 
Worcester  County." 

Page  160.  TOM  GAGE'S  PROCLAMATION. 
General  Gage's  proclamation,  issued  June  12, 
1 775,  was  as  follows :  — 

''Whereas  the  infatuated  multitudes,  who 
have  long  suffered  themselves  to  be  conducted 
by  certain  well-known  incendiaries  and  trai 
tors,  iu  a  fatal  progression  of  ciimes  against  the 
constitutional  authority  of  the  state,  have  at 
length  proceeded  to  avowed  rebellion,  and  the 
good  effects  which  were  expected  to  arise  from 
the  patience  and  lenity  of  the  king's  govern 
ment  have  been  often  frustrated,  and  are  now 
rendered  hopeless  by  the  influence  of  the  same 
evil  counsels,  it  only  remains  for  those  who  are 
entrusted  with  the  supreme  rule,  as  well  for 
the  punishment  of  the  guilty  as  the  protection 
of  the  well-affected,  to  prove  that  they  do  not 
bear  the  sword  in  vain." 

Page  162.  THE  BALLAD  OF  BUNKER  HILL. 
An  unsigned  copy  of  these  verses,  apparently  an 
authentic  Revolutionary  ballad,  but  really 
written  by  Dr.  Hale  in  1845,  was  "  discovered," 
about  1F58,  among  some  old  manuscripts  at 
Millbury,  Mass.,  and  reproduced  in  the  His- 


NOTES 


687 


torical  Magazine,"  iii,  311.  Dr.  Hale  had  him 
self  lost  all  trace  of  the  poem,  until  he  came 
across  it  in  the  first  edition  of  this  compilation. 

Page  103.  GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUN 
KER-HILL  BATTLE.  Dr.  Holmes  himself  says: — 

"  The  story  of  Bunker  Hill  battle  is  told  as 
literally  in  accordance  with  the  best  authorities 
as  it  would  have  been  if  it  had  been  written  in 
prose  instead  of  in  verse.  I  have  often  been 
asked  what  steeple  it  was  from  which  the  little 
group  I  speak  of  looked  upon  the  conflict.  To 
this  I  answer  that  I  am  not  prepared  to  speak 
authoritatively,  but  that  the  reader  may  take 
his  choice  among  all  the  steeples  standing  at 
that  time  in  the  northern  part  of  the  city. 
Christ  Church  in  Salem  Street  is  the  one  I  al 
ways  think  of,  but  I  do  not  insist  upon  its 
claim.  As  to  the  personages  who  made  up  the 
small  company  that  followed  the  old  corporal, 
it  would  be  hard  to  identify  them,  but  by  ascer 
taining-  where  the  portrait  by  Copley  is  now  to 
be  found,  some  light  may  be  thrown  on  their 
personality." 

It  has  been  pointed  ont  that  the  belfry  cculd 
hardly  have  been  that  of  Christ  Church,  since 
tradition  has  it  that  General  Gage  himself 
watched  the  battle  from  that  vantage  point. 

The  poem  was  first  published  in  1875,  in  con 
nection  with  the  centenary  of  the  battle  which 
it  describes. 

Page  1<>7.  THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL. 
This  "  popular  "  ballad  was  written  and  printed 
as  a  broadside  for  the  purpose  of  encouraging 
recruiting  for  the  English  army.  There  are 
many  versions  of  it,  as  well  as  parodies  com 
posed  by  Yankee  sympathizers. 

Page  109.  '  T  was  then  he  took  his  gloomy  way. 
Washington's  journey  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
a  kind  of  triumph. 

Page  1<>9.  Lawyer  Close.  Washington's  aide, 
Major  Lee. 

Page  170.  Like  Esop's  greedy  cur.  Fable 
118.  A  dog  crossing  a  rivulet,  with  a  piece  of 
meat  in  his  mouth,  saw  his  own  shadow  ;  and 
believing  it  to  be  another  dog  with  a  larger 
piece  of  meat,  snatched  at  it,  with  the  result 
that  he  lost  his  own  piece. 

Page  173.  A  POEM  CONTAINING  SOME  RE 
MARKS  ON  THE  PRESENT  WAR,  etc.,  is  from 
Peems  |  upon  |  Several  Occasions,  |  viz.  |  I.  A 
POEM  on  the  Enemy's  first  coming  |  to  Boston ; 
the  burning  of  Charles-  \  town;  the  Fight  at 
Bunker-Hill,  &c.  |  II.  The  WIDOW'S  Lamenta 
tion.  |  III.  Nebuchadnezzar'1 s  DREAM.  |  IV. 
Against  OPPRESSION.  |  V.  An  heroic  POEM  on 
the  taking  of  Gen.  |  Burgoyne,  &c.  \  Boston: 
Printed  for  the  AUTHOR,  1779.  |  It  is  an  8vo  of 
sixteen  pages,  the  first  poem  being  printed  in 
double  column.  A  note  at  the  end  of  the  vol 
ume  is  signed  "  A  Friend  to  Liberty." 

Page  17(5.  EMANCIPATION  FROM  BRITISH 
DEPENDENCE.  The  following  explanatory  note 
is  from  Duyckinck's  edition  of  Freneau  :  — 

"Sir  J-iniPS  Wallace,  Admiral  Graves,  and 
Captain  Montague  were  British  naval  officers, 
employed  on  our  coast.  The  Viper  and  Rose 
were  vessels  in  the  service.  Lord  Dunmore,  the 


last  Royal  governor  of  Virginia,  had  recently, 
in  April,  1775,  removed  the  public  stores  from 
Williamsburg,  and,  in  conjunction  with  a  party 
of  adherents,  supported  by  the  naval  foice  on 
the  station,  was  making  war  on  the  province. 
William  Tryon,  the  last  Royal  governor  of  New 
York,  discerning  the  signs  of  the  times,  took 
refuge  on  board  the  Halifax  packet  in  the  har 
bor,  and  left  the  city  in  the  middle  of  October, 
1775." 

Page  177.  Rodney,  who  was  one  of  the  Dela 
ware  delegates  to  the  Continental  Congress,  had 
obtained  leave  of  absence  for  a  journey  through 
the  southern  part  of  the  state  to  prepare  the 
people  for  a  change  of  government.  His  col 
leagues,  Thomas  McKean  and  George  Read, 
were  divided  on  the  question,  and  the  former, 
knowing  Rodney  to  be  favorable  to  the  declara 
tion,  sent  him  a  message  urging  his  return.  By 
great  exertion  Rodney  arrived  just  in  time  for 
the  final  discussion,  and  his  affirmative  vote 
secured  the  consent  of  the  Delaware  delegation 
to  the  declaration,  and  effected  that  unanimity 
among  the  colonies  which  was  essential  to  the 
success  of  the  measure. 

Page  180.  THE  AMERICAN  PATRIOT'S 
PRAYER.  This  poem  was  formerly  ascribed  to 
Thomas  Paine,  but  recent  authority  has  re 
jected  this  on  the  basis  of  internal  evidence. 

Page  183.  THE  MARYLAND  BATTALION. 
At  the  opening  of  the  Revolution,  the  young 
men  of  Baltimore  organized  the  "  Baltimore 
Independent  Company,"  and  elected  Mordec;:i 
Gist  captain.  This  was  afterwards  increased 
to  a  battalion,  of  which  Gist  was  appointed 
major.  The  battalion  checked  the  advance  of 
Cornwallis  at  the  battle  of  Long  Island,  and 
saved  a  portion  of  Stirling's  command  from 
capture.  Two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  were  left 
dead  on  the  field. 

Page  1.S3.  Grant.  The  British  general  who 
commanded  the  left  wing.  He  had  declared  in 
the  House  of  Commons  that  the  Americans 
would  not  fight,  and  that  he  could  march  from 
one  end  of  the  continent  to  the  other  with  five 
thousand  men. 

Page  183.  Stirling.  William  Alexander,, 
commonly  called  Lord  Stirling,  eldest  son  of 
James  Alexander  Stirling,  who  had  fled  to 
America  upon  the  discovery  of  the  Jacobite  con 
spiracy  of  1715. 

Page  184.  Knowlton.  Thomas  Knowlton, 
lieutenant-colonel  of  a  regiment  of  rangers  se 
lected  from  the  Connecticut  troops.  He  was 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Harlem  Heights,  as  was 
Major  Leitch,  who  had  been  sent  to  his  aid. 

Page  185.  NATHAN  HALE.  Nathan  Hale 
was  a  great-grandson  of  John  Hale,  first  minis 
ter  of  Beverly,  Massachusetts.  He  was  born 
in  1755,  and  graduated  from  Yale  in  1773.  Little 
is  known  of  his  personal  history. 

Page  188.  TRENTON  AND  PRINCETON.  From 
McCarty's  "  National  Song  Book,"  iii,  88. 
McCarty  says  it  was  written  from  the  dicta 
tion  of  an  old  lady  who  had  heard  it  sung 
during  the  Revolution. 

Page  204.    LORD  NORTH'S  RECANTATION. 


688 


NOTES 


These  verses  were  written  by  "  a  gentleman 
of  Chester,"  England,  and  first  appeared  in  the 
"London  Evening  Post." 

Page  205.  GENERAL  HOWE'S  LETTER.  From 
Upcott,  v,  45. 

Page  208.  BRITISH  VALOR  DISPLAYED  ;  OR, 
THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS.  This  ballad  was 
occasioned  by  a  real  incident.  Certain  ma 
chines  in  the  form  of  kegs,  charged  with  gun 
powder,  were  sent  down  the  river  to  annoy  the 
British  shipping  then  at  Philadelphia.  The 
danger  of  these  machines  being  discovered,  the 
British  manned  the  wharfs  and  shipping  and 
discharged  their  small-arms  and  cannons  at 
everything  they  saw  floating  in  the  river  during 
the  ebb  tide.  —  Author's  note. 

David  Bushnell,  inventor  of  the  American 
torpedo,  constructed  the  machines,  which  were 
so  arranged  as  to  explode  on  coming  in  contact 
with  anything.  Hopkiuson's  verses,  which 
swept  from  colony  to  colony,  did  much  to  re 
lieve  the  strain  of  those  early  months  of  1778, 
and  were  perhaps  worth  as  much,  in  tonic  and 
inspiration,  as  the  winning  of  a  battle  would 
have  been. 

Page  208.  Sir  William.  Sir  William  Howe, 
commanding  the  British  army. 

Page  208.  Mrs.  Loring.  Wife  of  Joshua 
Loring,  the  notorious  commissary  of  prisoners. 

Page  208.  Sir  Erskine.  Sir  William  Erskine. 

Page  214.  King  Hancock  at  their  head.  John 
Hancock  commanded  the  second  line  of  Massa 
chusetts  militia  in  this  movement. 

Page  214.  Bold  Pigot  Sir  Robert  Pigot  com 
manded  the  British  forces  in  Ithode  Island. 

Page  216.  BETTY  ZANE.  Elizabeth  Zane 
was  about  eighteen  years  of  age  at  the  time 
she  performed  this  exploit,  and  had  just  re 
turned  to  Fort  Henry  from  Philadelphia,  where 
she  had  completed  her  education.  She  lived 
until  1847. 

Page  216.  Betty's  brothers.  Ebenezer  and 
Silas. 

Page  217.  THE  WYOMING  MASSACRE.  This 
ballad  was  printed,  apparently  for  the  first 
time,  in  Charles  Miner's  "  History  of  Wyo 
ming  "  (Philadelphia,  1845),  where  it  is  stated 
that  it  was  written  shortly  after  the  tragedy  by 
Mr.  "  Uriah  Terry,  of  Kingston."  In  McCarty's 
"  National  Song  Book  "  (iii,  344)  it  is  said  to 
have  been  written  "  by  a  person  then  resident 
near  the  field  of  battle." 

Page  219.  THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  FAIR 
AMERICAN.  The  war  song  of  the  Salem  Priva- 
teersmen  during  the  Revolution,  and  preserved 
in  Griswold's  manuscript  collection  of  "Ameri 
can  Historical  Ballads."  It  was  taken  down 
from  the  mouths  of  Hawthorne's  surviving 
shipmates  early  in  the  last  century. 

Page  219.  Bold  Hawthorne.  Daniel  Haw 
thorne,  grandfather  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Page  223.  THE  YANKEE  MAN-OF-WAR. 
This,  one  of  the  very  best  of  American  sea- 
songs,  was  first  published  by  Commodore  Lrice, 
in  his  collection  of  "  Naval  Songs."  He  states 
that  it  va«  taken  down  from  the  recitation  of 
a  sailor.  Internal  evidence  would  indicate  that 


it  was  composed  by  a  member  of  the  Ranger's 
crew. 

Page  224.  PAUL  JONES  —  A  NEW  SONG. 
This  is  N  umber  613,  vol.  iii,  of  the  Roxburghe 
collection  of  broadsides. 

Page  224.  As  Green,  Jemmy  Twitcher.  Cap 
tain  Green  was  a  noted  pirate,  and  Jemmy 
Twitcher  was  the  name  given  to  the  notorious 
John,  Lord  Sandwich. 

Page  224.  Pierce.  Captain  Richard  Pear 
son.  He  was  knighted  as  a  reward  for  his 
fight  with  Jones.  The  latter  remarked,  upon 
hearing  of  it,  "Should  I  fall  in  with  him  again, 
I  '11  make  a  lord  of  him." 

Page  225.  The  Alliance  bore  down  andtheSich- 
ard  did  rake.  The  Alliance  was  commanded 
by  Pierre  Landais,  a  Frenchman,  and  his  ac 
tions  have  never  been  satisfactorily  explained. 
He  had  held  his  ship  aloof  at  the  opening  of 
the  battle, disregarding  Jones's  orders, but  came 
up  later  only  to  pour  three  or  four  broadsides 
into  the  Richard,  killing  or  wounding  many  of 
her  crew  and  almost  sinking  her.  She  then 
drew  off  and  awaited  the  result  of  the  battle. 

Page  225.  Full  forty  yuns  Serapis  bore.  She 
really  carried  fifty  against  the  Richard's  forty- 
two.  Besides,  she  was  a  new  frigate,  only  four 
months  out,  while  the  Richard  was  old  and  un- 
seaworthy.  The  Serapis  carried  320  men,  the 
Richard  i>04. 

Page  22(i.  Bold  Pallas  soon  the  Countess  took. 
The  Countess  of  Scarborough  struck  to  the 
Pallas  after  a  gallant  two  hours'  battle. 

Page  226.  In  the  Hyder  Ali.  HyderAliwas 
an  Indian  prince  who  defeated  the  English  in 
1767  and  subsequently  caused  them  so  much 
annoyance  that  he  was  very  popular  with 
American  patriots. 

Page  229.  The  Hope.  The  ship  Hope  and 
the  brig  Constance,  which  were  with  the  South 
Carolina,  were  also  taken. 

Page  229.  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  Clinton  was 
left  in  command  of  New  York  city,  when 
Howe  started  on  his  expedition  for  the  capture 
of  Philadelphia. 

Page  230.  Braving  the  death  that  his  heart 
foretold.  Wayne  was  convinced  that  he  would 
not  survive  the  attack  on  Stony  Point,  but 
nevertheless  led  the  assault  in  person.  He  was 
struck  in  the  head  by  a  bullet,  but  insisted  on 
being  borne  into  the  fort  with  his  men. 

Page  232.  THE  MODERN  JONAS.  A  pas 
quinade  punted  as  a  broadside  and  stuck  up  in 
New  York  city.  "Old  Knyp"  was  General 
Knyphausen  ;  "Old  Clip."  General  Robertson  ; 
and  "Yankee  Farms,"  Connecticut  Farms. 

Page  233.  THE  Cow-CnACE.  The  last  canto 
of  this  poem  was  published  in  "Rtvington's 
Royal  Gazette "  on  the  day  that  Andre1  was 
captured.  These  are  the  only  verses  he  is 
known  to  have  published.  The  original  copy 
is  still  in  existence,  and  has  the  following  stanza 
upon  it,  under  Andre's  signature  :  — 

When  the  epic  strain  was  sung, 
The  poet  by  the  reck  was  hung, 
And  to  his  rost  lie  finds  too  late 
The  dung-born  tribe  decides  his  f:\to. 


NOTES 


689 


The  poem  was  afterwards  published  by  Riv- 
ington  as  an  8vo  of  69  pages. 

"  The  Cow-Chace,"  in  its  early  editions,  had 
the  following  explanatory  notes :  — 
Tanner  :  General  Wayne's  legal  occupation. 
Mumps :  A  disorder  prevalent  in  the  Rebel 
lines. 

Yan  Van  Poop :  Who  kept  a  dram-shop. 
Jade :  A   New   England   name  for  a  horse, 
mare,  or  gelding. 

Bodies :  A  cant  appellation  given  among  the 
soldiery  to  the  corps  that  have  the  honor  to 
guard  his  majesty's  person. 

Cunningham  :  Provost-Marshal  of  New  York. 
The  shot  will  not  go  thro' : 

Five  Refugees  ('tis  true)  were  found 

Si  i  it  on  the  block-house  floor, 
But  then  "t  is  thought  the  shot  went  round, 
And  iu  at  the  back  door. 

Frost-bit  Alexander  :  Earl  of  Stirling. 

The  frantic  priest:  Caldwell,  a  minister  at 
Elizabeth  town. 

One  pretty  marquis :  Lafayette,  a  French 
coxcomb  in  the  rebel  service. 

Page  237.  John  Paulding.  Paulding  was 
born  in  New  York  city  in  1758  and  died  in 
1818.  His  capture  of  Andre1  was  his  one  famous 
exploit.  With  him  at  the  time  were  two  com 
rades,  named  Isaac  Van  Wart  and  David  Wil 
liams.  They  were  given  medals  by  Congress 
and  an  annuity  of  two  hundred  dollars. 

Page  239.  And  then,  at  last,  a  transatlantic 
grave.  In  1821  Andre's  remains  were  removed 
to  England  and  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Page  240.     Sir  Hal.     Sir  Henry  Clinton. 

Page  241.     Congo.     The  American  Congress. 

Page  242.  The  reverend  Mather.  Moses 
Mather,  D.D. 

Page  245.  HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS 
OF  BETHLEHEM.  The  banner  of  Pulaski's 
legion  was  embroidered  by  the  Moravian  sis 
ters  of  Bethlehem,  who  helped  to  support  their 
house  by  needlework.  It  is  preserved  in  the 
cabinet  of  the  Maryland  Historical  Society  at 
Baltimore. 

Page  245.  Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee. 
The  banner  was  made  to  be  carried  on  a  lance 
and  was  only  twenty  inches  square.  It  could 
not  have  been  used  as  a  shroud. 

Page  246.  Brave,  Maitland  push'd  in.  Col 
onel  Maitland  brought  a  large  body  of  British 
troops  from  Beaufort  to  Prevpst's  aid. 

Page  246'.  Moncrieffe.  Major  Moncrieff  was 
the  engineer  who  planned  Savannah's  defences. 

Page  246.  Who  attempted  to  murder  his  king. 
In  1771  Pulaski  attempted  to  kidnap  Stanis 
laus,  King  of  Poland. 

Page  250.  South  Mount.  Sumter's  home  near 
Camden,  South  Carolina. 

Page  259.  Two  birds  of  his  feather.  Howe 
and  Burgoyne. 

Page  259.    Poor  Charley.    Cornwallis. 

Page  2(iO.  A  murder'd  Hayne.  Isaac  Hayne, 
hanged  by  the  British,  August  4.  1781. 

Page  262.  And  Whitehead.  William  White- 
head,  poet  laureate  1751-1785. 

Page  263.     Thus  he.    Cincinnatus. 


Page  269.  No  taxes  we '//  pay.  Shays  and 
his  followers  demanded  decreased  taxes  and  a 
paper  currency. 

Page  269.  Here's  a  pardon  for  Wheeler, 
Shays,  Parsons,  and  Day.  Wheeler,  Parsons, 
and  Day  were  associates  of  Shays.  All  of 
them  fled  from  the  state,  but  were  afterwards 
pardoned. 

Page  271.  So  they  went  to  Federal  Street. 
The  convention  was  held  in  a  church  on  Long 
Lane,  which  was  afterwards  christened  Federal 
Street  in  honor  of  the  event. 

Page  273.  THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  CON 
GRESS.  From  "The  Columbiad." 

Page  274.  THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON. 
Read  in  New  York,  April  30, 1889,  at  the  centen 
nial  celebration  of  Washington's  inauguration. 

Page  276.  ADAMS  AND  LIBERTY.  Mr.  Charles 
Prentiss,  in  his  preface  to  the  collected  works 
of  Robert  Treat  Paine,  published  at  Boston  in 
1812,  gives  the  following  account  of  the  writing 
of  ''  Adams  and  Liberty  "  :  — 

"  In  June,  1798,  at  the  request  of  the  '  Massa 
chusetts  Charitable  Fire  Society,'  Mr.  Paine 
wrote  his  celebrated  political  song  of  '  Adams 
and  Liberty.'  It  may  appear  singular  that 
politics  should  have  any  connection  with  an  in 
stitution  of  benevolence :  but  the  great  object 
of  the  anniversary  being  to  obtain  charitable 
donations,  the  more  various  and  splendid  were 
the  attractions,  the  more  crowded  the  attend 
ance  :  and  of  course,  the  more  ample  the  accu 
mulation  for  charity. 

"  There  was,  probably,  never  a  political  song 
more  sung  in  America  than  this ;  and  one  of 
more  poetical  merit  was,  perhaps,  never  writ 
ten  :  an  anecdote  deserves  notice  respecting  one 
of  the  best  stanzas  in  it.  Mr.  Paine  had  written 
all  he  intended  ;  and  being  in  the  house  of  Major 
Russell,  editor  of  the  'Centinel,'  showed  him 
the  verses.  It  was  highly  approved,  but  pro 
nounced  imperfect ;  as  \\  ashington  was  omit 
ted.  The  sideboard  was  replenished,  and  Paine 
was  about  to  help  himself  ;  when  Major  Russell 
familiarly  interfered,  and  insisted,  in  his  hu 
morous  manner,  that  he  should  not  slake  his 
thirst  till  he  had  written  an  additional  stanza, 
in  which  Washington  should  be  introduced. 
Paine  marched  back  and  forth  a  few  minutes, 
and  suddenly  starting,  called  for  a  pen.  He  im 
mediately  wrote  the  following  sublime  stanza 
[the  one  beginning  "Should  the  tempest  of 
war  overshadow  our  land  "]. 

''  The  sale  of  this  song  yielded  him  a  profit 
of  about  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  It 
was  read  by  all ;  and  there  was  scarcely  in  New 
England,  a  singer,  that  could  not  sing  this  song. 
Nor  was  its  circulation  confined  to  New  England : 
it  was  sung  at  theatres,  and  on  public  and  private 
occasions,  throughout  the  United  States ;  and 
republished  and  applauded  in  Great  Britain." 

Page  277.  HAIL  COLUMBIA.  The  following 
letter  from  Joseph  Hopkinson,  son  of  Francis 
Hopkinson,  is  quoted  by  Rev.  R.  W.  Griswold, 
in  his  "  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America  "  :  — 

"  It  ["  Hail  Columbia  "]  was  written  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1798,  when  war  with  France  was  thought 


NOTES 


to  be  inevitable.  Congress  was  then  in  session 
in  Philadelphia,  deliberating  upon  that  impor 
tant  subject,  and  acts  of  hostility  had  actually 
taken  place.  The  contest  between  England 
and  France  was  raging,  and  the  people  of  the 
United  States  were  divided  into  parties  for  the 
one  side  or  the  other,  some  thinking  that  policy 
and  duty  required  us  to  espouse  the  cause  of  re 
publican  France,  as  she  was  called  ;  while  others 
were  for  connecting  ourselves  with  England, 
under  the  belief  that  she  was  the  great  pre 
servative  power  of  good  principles  and  safe  gov 
ernment.  The  violation  of  our  rights  by  both 
belligerents  was  forcing  us  from  the  just  and 
wise  policy  of  President  Washington,  which  was 
to  do  equal  justice  to  both,  to  take  part  with 
neither,  but  to  preserve  a  strict  and  honest  neu 
trality  between  them.  The  prospect  of  a  rup 
ture  with  France  was  exceedingly  offensive  to 
the  portion  of  the  people  who  espoused  her 
cause,  and  the  violence  of  the  spirit  of  party 
has  never  risen  higher,  I  think  not  so  high,  in 
our  country,  as  it  did  at  that  time,  Tipon  that 
question.  The  theatre  was  then  open  in  our 
city.  A  young  man  belonging  to  it,  whose  tal 
ent  was  as  a  singer,  was  about  to  take  his  benefit. 
I  had  known  him  when  he  was  at  school.  On 
this  acquaintance,  he  called  on  me  one  Saturday 
afternoon,  his  benefit  being  announced  for  the 
following  Monday.  His  prospects  were  very 
disheartening  ;  but  he  said  that  if  he  could  get 
a  patriotic  song  adapted  to  the  tune  of  the 
'  President's  March,'  he  did  not  doubt  of  a  full 
house  ;  that  the  poets  of  the  theatrical  corps 
had  been  trying  to  accomplish  it,  but  had  not 
succeeded.  I  told  him  I  would  try  what  I  could 
do  for  him.  The  object  of  the  author  was  to 
get  up  an  American  spirit,  which  should  be  in 
dependent  of  and  above  the  interests,  passions, 
and  policy  of  both  belligerents :  and  look  and 
feel  exclusively  for  our  own  honour  and  rights. 
No  allusion  is  made  to  France  or  England,  or 
the  quarrel  between  them :  or  to  the  question, 
which  was  most  at  fault  in  their  treatment  of 
us :  of  course  the  song  found  favour  with  both 
parties,  for  both  were  Americans ;  at  least 
neither  could  disavow  the  sentiments  and  feel 
ings  it  inciilcated." 

rage  278.  YE  SONS  OF  COLUMBIA  :  AN  ODE. 
From  "  Original  Poems  by  Thomas  Green  Fes- 
senden,  Esq.,  author  of  Terrible  Tractoration, 
or  Caustic's  Petition  to  the  Royal  College  of 
Physicians,  and  Democracy  Unveiled.  Phila 
delphia  :  Printed  at  the  Lorenzo  Press  of  E. 
Bronson.  1806."  The  following  note  to  this 
poem  appears  in  the  first  edition  :  "  The  above 
Ode  was  written,  set  to  musick,  and  snng  on  a 
pnblick  occasion  in  Rutland,  Vermont,  July, 
1798.  At  that  time  the  armament,  which  after 
wards  sailed  to  Egypt,  under  Buonaparte,  lay 
at  Toulon  :  its  destination  was  not  known  in 
America,  but  many  supposed  that  it  was  in 
tended  to  waft  the  blessings  of  French  Liberty 
to  the  United  States."  Fessenden  seems  to 
have  been  possessed  of  an  acute  hatred  of  the 
French,  due,  perhaps,  to  his  residence  in  Eng 
land.  Three  other  poems  in  this  little  book  are 


devoted  to  denouncing  Napoleon,  the  Jacobins, 
and  the  "sansculotte" — of  which  latter  phrase 
he  was  singularly  fond. 

Page  283.  So  the  common  sailor  died.  James 
did  not  die.  He  recovered  from  his  wounds, 
served  through  the  second  war  with  England 
and  lived  till  about  1840. 

Page  283.  SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE.  Whit- 
tier  heard  the  story  of  Skipper  Ireson  in  1828, 
when  he  was  a  student  at  Haverhill  Academy. 
It  was  told  him  by  a  schoolmate  from  Marble- 
head,  and  he  began  at  once  to  write  the  ballad, 
but  it  was  not  published  until  1857,  when  it  ap 
peared  in  the  second  number  of  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly." 

Mr.  Samuel  Roads,  Jr.,  in  his  "History  of 
Marblehead,"  contended  that  Ireson  was  in  no 
way  responsible  for  the  abandonment  of  the 
disabled  ship,  and  Whittier,  in  writing  to  Mr. 
Roads,  says :  "  I  have  now  no  doubt  that  thy 
version  of  Skipper  Ireson's  ride  is  the  correct 
one.  My  verse  was  founded  solely  on  a  frag 
ment  of  rhyme  which  I  heard  from  one  of  my 
early  schoolmates,  a  native  of  Marblehead.  I 
supposed  the  story  to  which  it  referred  dated 
back  at  least  a  century.  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
paiticipants,  and  the  narrative  of  the  ballad  was 
puie  fancy.  I  am  glad  for  the  sake  of  truth 
and  justice  that  the  real  facts  are  given  in  thy 
book.  I  certainly  would  not  knowingly  do  in 
justice  to  any  one,  dead  or  living." 

The  use  of  dialect  in  the  refrain  was  sup- 
gested  by  Lowell,  the  editor  of  the  "  Atlantic  " 
at  Ihe  time. 

Page  285.  THE  TIMES.  McCarty's  "Na 
tional  Song  Book  "  (Philadelphia,  IHil)  is  a  real 
treasuie-house  of  ballads  written  during  the 
second  war  with  England.  "  The  Times  "  is 
from  this  source,  as  are  many  of  the  other  bal 
lads  qroted  here. 

Page  287.  HULL'S  SURRENDER.  This  bal 
lad  was  copied  from  a  broadside  in  the  posses 
sion  of  the  library  of  Harvard  University.  It 
is  so  tattered  that  one  stanza,  the  last,  is  inde 
cipherable  and  had  to  be  omitted. 

Page  289.  Commanded  by  Dacres  the  grandee 
O.  Captain  (afterward  Rear-Admiral  of  the 
Red)  James  Richard  Dacres. 

Page  292.  Where  Brock,  the  proud  insulttr, 
rides.  Sir  Isaac  Brock.  He  had  received 
Hull's  surrender  less  than  two  months  befoi  o. 
He  was  pierced  by  three  bullets  as  he  led  his 
troops  into  battle  at  Queenstown  and  died 
where  he  fell. 

Page  298.  Brave  Chauncey.  Captain  Isaac 
Chauncey. 

Page  302.  We  mourn,  indeed,  a  hero  lost ! 
Captain  William  Burrows,  of  the  Enterprise, 
and  Captain  Blythe,  of  the  Boxer,  both  fell 
during  the  action,  and  were  buried  side  by  side 
at  Portland. 

Page  30R.  And  whether  like  Yeo,  boys,  they  'd 
taken  affright.  Sir  James  Lucas  Yeo,  who  had 
been  defeated  by  Captain  Isaac  Chauncey  and 
was  afterwards  blockaded  by  him  in  Kingston 
Harbor. 

Page  304.     Thought  it  best  from  his  well-pep- 


NOTES 


691 


pared  ship  to  depart.  The  Lawrence  was  so  se 
verely  shot  up  early  in  the  action,  that  Perry 
transferred  his  flag-  to  the  Niagara.  He  after 
wards  returned  to  the  Lawrence  to  receive  the 
surrender  of  the  surviving  British  officers. 

Page  306.  And  Tecumseh  fell  prostrate  before 
him.  The  honor  of  having  killed  Tecumseh 
was  claimed  for  Colonel  Richard  Malcolm  John- 
ijton,  but  the  claim  was  never  conclusively  es 
tablished. 

Page  3(X>.  Walbach.  John  Batiste  de  Barth, 
Baron  de  Walbach,  a  German  veteran  who  had 
come  to  America  on  a  visit  in  1798.  He  en 
listed  in  the  American  army,  won  steady  pro 
motion,  and  died  in  1857  with  the  rank  of  brig 
adier-general. 

Page  309.  Four  gallant  ships.  The  Ramillies 
74,  commanded  by  Sir  Thomas  Hardy ;  the 
Pactolus  38,  the  Despatch  22,  and  a  bombship. 

Paere  313.  Downie.  George  Downie,  com 
mander  of  the  British  .fleet.  He  was  killed 
during  the  action. 

Page  313.  Macomb.  General  Alexander  Ma- 
comb,  in  command  of  the  American  land  force. 
His  army,  consisting  of  about  fifteen  hundred 
regulars  and  some  detachments  of  militia,  was 
greatly  outnumbered  by  the  British. 

Page  315.  To  serve  me  just  like  Drummond. 
Sir  Gordon  Drummond,  who  lost  a  large  part 
of  his  force  by  the  explosion  of  a  mine,  while 
assaulting  Fort  Erie. 

Page  315.  Old  Ross,  Cockburn,  and  Coch- 
rane  too.  Robert  Ross,  selected  by  Wellington 
to  command  the  troops  sent  to  this  country  in 
1814.  He  was  killed  while  leading  the  advance 
toward  Baltimore,  after  having  sacked  Wash 
ington.  Sir  George  Cockburn,  second  in  com 
mand  of  the  fleet,  who  had  become  notorious 
for  his  raids  along  the  American  coast.  Sir 
Alexander  Cochrane,  in  command  of  the  Brit 
ish  fleet  on  the  American  station. 

Page  315.  General^  Winder.  General  Wil 
liam  Henry  Winder,  in  command  of  the  Ameri 
can  militia  at  the  battle  of  Bladensburg. 

Page  317.  THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 
The  poem  was  really  written  at  white  heat,  for 
Key  made  his  first  draft  while  the  fight  was  actu 
ally  in  progress,  and  corrected  it  at  Baltimore 
next  day.  It  was  at  once  struck  off  as  a  broad 
side,  and  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm. 
The  air,  from  which  it  is  inseparable,  was  se 
lected  almost  at  random,  from  a  volume  of  flute 
music,  by  an  actor  named  Ferdinand  Durang, 
and  was  known  as  "  Anacreon  in  Heaven." 
Additional  stanzas  have  been  written  for  the 
poem  from  time  to  time,  but  none  of  them  are 
in  any  way  notable  except  those  written  during 
the  Civil  War  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes : 

When  our  land  is  illumined  with  liberty's  smile, 
If  a  foe  from  within  strike  a  blow  at  her  glory, 
Down,  down  with  the  traitor  who  dares  to  defile 
The  flag  of  her  stars  and  the  page  of  her  story  ! 

By  the  millions  unchained 

Who  their  birthright  have  gained 
We  will  kepp  her  bright  blazon  forever  unstained; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
While  Che  land  of  the  free  is  the  home  of  the  brave. 


Page  321.  Take  our  wounded^  find  our  dead. 
The  American  loss  was  two  killed  and  seven 
wounded,  while  the  British  lost  120  killed  and 
180  wounded. 

Page  323.  For  I  went  down  with  Carroll. 
Wjlliam  Carroll,  major-general  of  Tennessee 
militia. 

^  Page  324.  'Twas  Pakenham  in  person.  Sir 
Edward  Michael  Pakenham.  He  had  suc 
ceeded  Ross  in  the  command  of  Wellington's 
veterans,  and,  like  his  predecessor,  was  killed 
while  leading  his  men  against  the  enemy. 

Page  325.  And  came,  with  Gibbs  to  head  it. 
Sir  Samuel  Gibbs,  second  in  command  to  Paken 
ham. 

Page  325.  It  is  the  Baratarian.  The  head- 
quartera  of  Jean  Lafltte,  the  freebooter,  at 
Barataria,  had  been  broken  up  only  a  short 
time  before,  and  many  of  bis  hand  captured 
and  imprisoned.  They  were  subsequently  re 
leased,  and  under  three  of  Lafitte's  lieutenants, 
Dominique,  You,  and  Bluche.  hastened  to  Jack 
son's  aid  before  New  Orleans,  where  they  did 
good  service,  especially  with  the  artillery. 

Page  325.  Keane  was  sorely  wounded.  Baron 
John  Keane,  in  command  of  the  third  brigade. 

Page  327.  Our  captain.  Charles  Stewart. 
He  held  the  remarkable  record  of  being  seven 
ty-one  years  in  the  service,  and  senior  officer 
for  seventeen  years.  He  lived  until  1869.  His 
daughter  was  the  mother  of  Charles  Stewart 
Parnell. 

Page  335.  Oyo.  The  Indian  name  for  the 
Ohio. 

Page  337.  Blanny.  A  popular  corruption  of 
Blennerhassett. 

Page  337.  Our  General  brave.  Major-General 
Buell. 

Page  337.  I  have  the  Baron  in  my  head.  The 
only  system  of  military  tactics  then  in  use 
among  the  officers  in  the  western  country  was 
that  of  Baron  Stenben. 

Paure  337.  The  Deputy.  Governor  Return 
Jonathan  Meigs. 

Page  338.  '  T  was  half  a  kneel  of  Indian  meal. 
A  kneel  is  equal  to  tAvo  quarts. 

Page  338.  Tyler,  they  say,  lies  at  Belprf. 
Comfort  Tyler  was  one  of  Burr's  chief  lieuten 
ants. 

Page  338.     The  Coroner.    Joel  Bo  wen. 

Page  338.  Instead  of  sword,  he  seized  his 
board.  Buell  was  a  tailor  by  trade. 

Page  343.  Good  Junipero.  Father  Junipero 
Serra,  the  famous  head  of  the  missionaries  in 
California. 

Page  343.  The  Visitador.  Jose"  de  Galvez, 
Visitador  General  of  New  Spain. 

Page  344.  Viscaino.  Sebastian  Viscaino, 
who  conducted  a  Spanish  exploring  expedition 
along  the  California  coast  in  1602-03. 

Page  345.  "THE  DAYS  OF  'FoRTY-NiNE." 
Half  a  century  ago,  this  song  was  widely  popu 
lar,  and  yet  to-day  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
find  an  authentic  copy.  There  is  a  version  in 
Upham's  "Notes  of  a  Voyage  to  California," 
but  it  is  anything  but  convincing.  The  version 
given  here  was  contributed  to  "  Out  West"  by 


692 


NOTES 


Florence  Gleason,  of  Bakersfield,   California, 
and  has  the  ear-marks  of  authenticity. 

Page  351.  CONCORD  HYMN.  The  first  quat 
rain  of  this  poem  is  inscribed  on  the  Battle 
Monument  at  Concord.  Emerson's  grandfather, 
William  Emerson,  was  minister  at  Concord  in 
1775,  and  from  his  pulpit  strongly  advocated  re 
sistance  to  the  British.  When  the  day  of  trial 
came,  he  took  his  place  among  "  the  embattled 
farmers."  "  Letus  stand  our  ground,"  he  said  to 
the  minutemen  ;  "if  we  die,  let  us  die  here." 
The  fight  took  place  near  his  own  house,  the 
home  afterwards  of  Emerson  and  of  Haw- 
thornj,  and  celebrated  by  the  latter  as  "  The 
Old  Manse." 

Page  353.  OLD  TIPPECANOE.  From  "  The 
Harrison  Log  Cabin  Song  Book,"  Columbus 
[Ohio],  1840. 

Page  356.  A  thousand  Mexicans  lay  dead. 
A  careful  estimate  places  the  Mexican  loss  at 
about  five  hundred.  Six  of  the  Texans,  includ 
ing  Travis,  Bowie,  and  Crockett,  were  taken 
alive,  but  were  immediately  put  to  death  by 
Santa  Anna's  order. 

Page  357.  Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman.  While 
every  man  of  the  garrison  was  killed,  three 
women  survived,  one  of  whom  was  Mrs.  Alme- 
rion  Dickinson,  wife  of  a  lieutenant  belonging 
to  the  garrison.  Three  children  also  survived. 
Page  358.  We  slew  and  slew  till  the  sun  set 
red.  Houston  reported  the  Mexican  loss  to  be 
630  killed,  208  wounded,  730  captured.  The 
wounded  were,  however,  counted  among  the 
prisoners.  The  American  loss  was  2  killed  and 
23  wounded.  Santa  Anna  himself  was  captured 
next  day. 

Page  302.  Rw  Bravo.  Rio  Bravo  del  Norte, 
"  Rapid  River  of  the  North,"  is  a  Spanish  name 
for  the  Rio  Grande. 

Page  366.  THE  ANGELS  OF  BCENA  VISTA. 
A  letter-writer  from  Mexico  during  the  Mexi 
can  War,  when  detailing  some  of  the  incidents 
at  the  terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista,  mentioned 
that  Mexican  women  were  seen  hovering  near 
the  field  of  death,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  aid 
and  succor  to  the  wounded.  One  poor  woman 
was  found  surrounded  by  the  maimed  and  suf 
fering  of  both  armies,  ministering  to  the  wants 
of  Americans  as  well  as  Mexicans  with  impartial 
tenderness.  —  Author's  note. 

Page  369.  Guvener  B.  George  Nixon  Briggs 
was  the  Whig  governor  of  Massachusetts  from 
1844  to  1851. 

Page  369.  John  P.  Eobinson.  John  Paul 
Robinson  (1799-1864)  was  a  resident  of  Lowell, 
a  lawyer  of  considerable  ability  and  a  thorough 
classical  scholar.  Late  in  the  gubernatorial 
contest  of  1847  it  was  rumored  that  Robinson, 
heretofore  a  zealous  Wh'g,  and  a  delegate  to 
the  recent  Springfield  convention,  had  gone  over 
to  the  Democratic  or,  as  it  was  then  styled,  the 
"Loco"  camp.  The  editor  of  the  'Boston 
Palladium  "  wrote  to  him  to  learn  the  truth, 
and  Robinson  replied  in  an  open  letter  avowing 
his  intention  to  vote  for  Gushing. 
Page  369.  GineralC.  General  Caleb  Gushing. 
Page  384.  BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


This,  perhaps  the  loftiest  strain  of  American 
patriotism,  was  inspired  by  a  visit  which  Mrs. 
Howe  paid  to  Washington  in  December,  1861. 
She  heard  the  troops  singing  "John  Brown's 
Body,"  and,  at  the  suggestion  of  James  Free 
man  Clarke,  determined  to  write  some  worthy 
words  to  go  with  that  air.  The  words  were 
written  almost  at  once,  and  were  taken  back  to 
Boston  by  Mrs.  Howe.  She  gave  them  to  James 
T.  Fields,  editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly," 
and  they  were  published  in  the  issue  of  that 
magazine  for  February,  18(52,  being  given  the 
entire  first  page.  Mr.  Fields  furnished  the  title. 
Strangely  enough,  the  poem  attracted  little  at 
tention,  until  a  copy  of  a  newspaper  containing 
it  was  smuggled  into  Libby  Prison.  Chaplain 
Charles  C.  SicCabe  read  it  there,  and  presently 
the  whole  prison  was  singing  it.  After  his  re 
lease,  Chaplain  McCabe  continued  to  call  atten 
tion  to  the  song,  and  its  merits  were  soon  widely 
recognized.  President  Roosevelt  has  suggested 
that  it  deserves  to  be  the  national  anthem. 

Page  386.  Mr.  Foote.  Henry  S.  Foote  was 
Senator  from  Mississippi  from  1847  to  1852.  He 
was  a  member  of  the  Confederate  Congress. 

Page  386.  Mangum.  W.  P.  Mangum  (1792- 
1861)  was  Senator  from  North  Carolina  from 
1831  to  1837,  and  again  from  1841  to  1847. 

Page  387.  Cass.  Lewis  Cass  (1782-1 866)  was 
Senator  from  Michigan  from  1845  to  1848,  and 
candidate  for  the  presidency  on  the  Democratic 
ticket  in  1848.  After  his  defeat  by  Taylor  he 
was,  in  1849,  returned  to  the  Senate  to  fill  out  his 
unexpired  term.  He  was  Buchanan's  Secretary 
of  State  until  the  famous  message  of  December, 
1860,  when  he  resigned. 

Page  387.  Davis.  Jefferson  Davis,  the  Presi 
dent  of  the  Confederate  States,  was  a  Senator 
from  Mississippi  from  1847  to  1850. 

Page  387.  Hannegan.  Edward  A.  Hanne- 
gan  was  Senator  from  Indiana  from  1843  to  1849. 

Page  387.  Jarnagin.  Spencer  Jarnagin  re 
presented  the  state  of  Tennessee  in  the  Senate 
from  1841  to  1847. 

Page  387.  Atherton.  Charles  G.  Atherton 
(1804-53)  was  Senator  from  New  Hampshire 
from  1843  to  1849 

Page  387.  Colquitt.  W.  T.  Colquitt  (1799- 
1855)  was  Senator  from  Georgia  from  1843  to 
1849. 

Page  387.  Johnson.  Reverdy  Johnson  was 
Senator  from  Maryland,  1845-49. 

Page  387.  Westcott.  James  D.  Westcott, 
Senator  from  Florida,  1845-49. 

Page  387.  Lewis.  Dixon  H.  Lewis,  Senator 
from  Alabama,  1844-48. 

Page  388.  ICHABOD.  This  poem  was  the 
outcome  of  the  surprise  and  grief  and  forecast 
of  evil  consequences  which  I  felt  on  reading  the 
seventh  of  March  speech  of  Daniel  Webster  in 
support  of  the  "  compromise,"  and  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law.  .  .  .  But  death  softens  all  resent 
ments,  and  the  consciousness  of  a  common  in 
heritance  of  frailty  and  weakness  modifies  the 
severity  of  judgment.  Years  after,  in  "  The 
Lost  Occasion,"  I  gave  utterance  to  an  almost 
universal  regret  that  the  great  statesman  did 


NOTES 


693 


not  live  to  see  the  flag  -which  he  loved  trampled 
under  the  feet  of  Slavery,  and,  in  view  of  this 
desecration,  make  his  last  days  glorious  in  de 
fence  of  "  Liberty  and  Union,  one  and  insepa 
rable."  —  Author  s  note. 

Page  391.  Beyond  the  river  banks.  The 
Wakarusa. 

Page  391.  Keitt.  Laurence  Massillon  Keitt, 
Congressman  from  South  Carolina,  1852-60. 
Killed  at  the  battle  of  Cold  Harbor,  1862. 

Page  391.  The  anti-Lecomptonite  phalanx. 
Lecompton  was  the  capital  of  the  territory  of 
Kansas,  and  a  pro-slavery  constitution  was 
framed  there  at  a  constitutional  convention 
which  lasted  from  September  5  to  November  7, 
1857.  It  was  rejected  by  the  people  of  Kansas 
early  in  the  following  year. 

Page  394.  Captain  Stephens.  Aaron  Dwight 
Stephens.  He  was  a  captain  only  in  the  sense 
that  he  was  to  be  given  that  position  in  the 
negro  army  which  Brown  expected  to  organize. 

Page  395.  With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men. 
There  were  either  twenty-two  or  twenty-three 
men  in  the  party. 

Page  395.  So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond 
for  the  Government  Marines.  The  marines 
arrived  by  train  from  Washington.  Strangely 
enough,  they  were  under  command  of  Colonel 
Robert  E.  Lee  and  Lieutenant  J.  E.  B.  Stuart. 

Page  395.  Fired  their  bullets  in  his  clay.  The 
bodies  of  some  of  the  dead  were  atrociously 
maltreated. 

Page  395.  How  they  hastened  on  the  trial.  The 
trial  began  October  26  and  ended  November  2. 
The  proceedings,  though  swift,  were  not  un 
seemly  nor  unduly  summary,  considering  the 
excitement  of  the  Virginians  and  their  fear  that 
a  rescue  would  be  attempted  from  the  North. 

Page  403.  GOD  SAVE  OUR  PRESIDENT. 
These  verses  were  written  in  1857,  and  the 
music  for  them  was  composed  a  year  later  by 
George  Felix  Benkert.  It  was  played  by  the 
Marine  Band  at  the  first  inauguration  of  Lin 
coln,  immediately  after  the  inaugural  address. 

Page  411.  DIXIE.  Dan  Enimett,  the  once- 
famous  negro  minstrel,  was  the  author  of  the 
original  "  Dixie,"  which  was  written  in  1859. 
It  is  said  he  got  the  air  from  an  old  plantation 
melody.  It  was  soon  appropriated  by  the  South 
and  became  the  most  popular  of  all  the  Southern 
war  songs.  The  words  used,  however,  were  not 
Emmett's,  which  were  mere  doggerel,  but  Gen 
eral  Albert  Pike's,  as  given  in  the  text.  Since 
the  war,  "Dixie"  has  grown  as  popular  in  the 
North  as  in  the  South.  Many  verses  have  been 
set  to  the  air,  but  none  of  them,  besides  Em 
mett's  and  Pike's,  has  gained  any  popularity. 

Page  411.  A  CRY  TO  ARMS.  The  unusual 
poetic  merit  of  the  Southern  poems  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  war  is  worth  remarking.  This,  as 
the  war  progressed,  gave  place  in  large  part 
to  mere  hysteria,  while  the  poetic  quality  of 
Northern  verse,  poor  enough,  at  first,  grew 
steadily  better.  This  may  perhaps  be  explained 
by  the  fact  that  the  South  was  the  more  in 
earnest  when  the  war  began,  while  the  earnest 
ness  of  the  North  deepened  as  it  went  on. 


Page  415.  MY  MARYLAND.  This  poem, 
which  divided  with  "  Dixie  "  popularity  among 
the  Southern  troops,  was  written  by  Mr.  Ran 
dall  immediately  upon  hearing  of  the  outbreak 
at  Baltimore.  The  form  of  the  poem  was  sug 
gested  by  Mangan's  "  Karamanian  Exile  "  :  — 

I  see  thee  ever  in  my  dreams, 

Karaman  ! 
Thy  hundred  hills,  thy  thousand  streams, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman ! 

It  was  wedded  to  the  old  college  air  "  Lauriger 
Horatius,"  by  Miss  Hattie  Gary,  of  Baltimore. 

In  affecting  contrast  to  the  reception  given 
the  Sixth  Massachusetts  in  1861  was  that  given 
it  in  1898,  when  it  passed  through  Baltimore 
on  its  way  to  Cuba.  The  historic  regiment  was 
met  at  the  station  by  the  mayor ;  school-children 
drawn  up  along  the  line  of  march  pelted  the 
soldiers  with  flowers ;  each  soldier  was  given  a 
little  box  containing  cake,  fruit,  and  a  love- 
letter  ;  and  a  great  motto  was  strung  across  the 
streets  reading,  "  Let  the  welcome  of  '98  efface 
the  memory  of  '61." 

Page  424.  To  General  J.  E.  Johnston.  Gen 
eral  Johnston,  who  had  been  stationed  at  Win 
chester  with  the  Army  of  the  Shenandoah, 
marched  rapidly  to  Beauregard's  aid,  when  the 
latter  was  attacked  at  Manassas,  and  upon  his 
arrival  left  Beauregard,  whom  he  ranked,  in 
tactical  command  of  the  field,  and  assumed  re 
sponsibility  and  general  charge  of  the  battle. 

Page  435.  WANTED  —  A  MAN.  This  poem 
is  said  to  have  so  impressed  President  Lincoln 
that  he  read  it  to  his  Cabinet. 

Page  444.  BARBARA  FRIETCHIE.  This  poem 
was  written  in  strict  conformity  to  the  account 
of  the  incident  as  I  had  it  from  respectable  and 
trustworthy  sources.  It  has  since  been  the  sub 
ject  of  a  good  deal  of  conflicting  testimony, 
and  the  story  was  probably  incorrect  in  some  of 
its  details.  It  is  admitted  by  all  that  Barbara 
Frietchie  was  no  myth,  but  a  worthy  and  highly 
esteemed  gentlewoman,  intensely  loyal  and  a 
hater  of  the  Slavery  Rebellion,  holding  her 
Union  flag  sacred  and  keeping  it  with  her 
Bible  ;  that  when  the  Confederates  halted  be 
fore  her  house,  and  entered  her  dooryard,  she 
denounced  them  in  vigorous  language,  shook 
her  cane  in  their  faces,  and  drove  them  out ; 
and  when  General  Burnside's  troops  followed 
close  upon  Jackson's,  she  waved  her  flag  and 
cheered  them.  It  is  stated  that  May  Quantrell, 
a  brave  and  loyal  lady  in  another  part  of  the 
city,  did  wave  her  flag  in  sight  of  the  Con 
federates.  It  is  possible  that  there  has  been  a 
blending  of  the  two  incidents. — Author's  note. 

Page  449.  Tis  Meagher  and  his  fellows. 
Brigadier-General  Thomas  F.  Meagher  com 
manded  the  second  brigade  of  the  first  division 
of  the  right  grand  division.  It  was  called  the 
"Irish  Brigade,"  and  Meagher  himself  had 
organized  it.  After  Chancellorsville,  it  was  so 
decimated  that  it  was  incorporated  with  other 
regiments. 

Page  449.  The  wild  day  is  closed.  Burnside's 
attempt  to  carry  the  heights  behind  Fredericks- 


694 


NOTES 


burg  by  storm  was  perhaps  the  most  insane 
of  the  war.  In  spite  of  McClellan's  lack  of 
promptness,  thoroughness,  and  vigor,  and  a  sort 
of  incapacity  of  doing  anything  until  an  ideal 
completeness  of  preparation  was  reached,  he  was 
in  many  ways  the  best  commander  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac  ever  had.  Pope,  Burnside,  and 
Hooker  were  admittedly  his  inferiors. 

Page  458.  THE  EAGLE  OF  CORINTH.  The 
finest  thing  I  ever  saw  was  a  live  American 
eagle,  carried  by  the  Eighth  Wisconsin,  in  the 
place  of  a  flag.  It  would  fly  off  over  the  enemy 
during  the  hottest  of  the  fight,  then  would  re 
turn  and  seat  himself  upon  his  pole,  clap  his 
pinions,  shake  his  head,  and  start  again.  Many 
and  hearty  were  the  cheers  that  arose  from  our 
lines  as  the  old  fellow  would  sail  around,  first  to 
the  right,  then  to  the  left,  and  always  return 
to  his  post,  regardless  of  the  storm  of  leaden 
hail  that  was  around  him.  —  Letter  from  an 
Illinois  Volunteer. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  the  eagle  was  pre 
sented  to  Governor  Lewis,  of  Wisconsin,  and 
g'ovided  with  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the  State 
ouse  Park  at  Madison. 

Page  461.  READY.  The  incident  described 
in  this  poem  occurred  probably  during  the  first 
week  of  April,  1S63.  Rodman's  Point  is  a  strip 
of  land  projecting  into  the  Pimlico  River  just 
below  Washington,  North  Carolina. 

Page  462.  Kady  Brownell.  On  April  25, 
1861,  the  New  York  "  Herald,"  in  referring  to 
the  passage  of  the  second  detachment  of  Rhode 
Island  troops  through  New  York  city,  said : 
"The  volunteers  bring  along  with  them  two 
very  prepossessing  young  women,  named  Martha 
Francis  and  Katey  Brownell,  both  of  Provi 
dence,  who  propose  to  act  as  '  daughters  of  the 
regiment,'  after  the  French  plan." 

Page  4(57.  THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  MONITOR. 
The  contract  for  the  construction  of  the  Moni 
tor  was  given  to  John  Ericsson,  of  New  York, 
on  October  4, 1861.  It  was  to  be  an  iron-plated 
raft,  172  feet  over  all,  4l£  feet  beam,  and  11^ 
feet  depth  of  hold,  carrying  a  revolving  iron 
turret  containing  two  11-inch  Dahlgren  guns. 
The  ironclad  was  launched  January  30, 1862,  an 
extraordinary  feat  in  naval  construction,  and 
was  handed  over  to  the  government  February 
19,  its  cost  being  $275,000.  At  eleven  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  March  6,  the  queer  craft 
started  for  Hampton  Roads,  to  meet  the  Merri- 
mac,  word  of  whose  completion  had  reached  the 
United  States  government.  That  the  vessel 
did  not  founder  on  the  voyage  was  little  less 
than  a  miracle,  but  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  even 
ing  of  March  8,  the  Monitor  reached  Fort  Mon 
roe,  her  progress  up  the  bay  being  lighted  by 
the  burning  frigate  Congress. 

Page  466.  Bold  Warden.  The  Monitor  was 
commanded  by  Lieutenant  John  Lorimer  Wor- 
den,  while  the  Merrimac  was  in  charge  of  Lieu 
tenant  Catesby  Jones,  his  superior,  Captain 
Franklin  Buchanan,  having  been  wounded  by 
a  rifle  bullet  the  day  before.  Worden  was  in 
jured  during  the  action  by  a  shell  exploding 
against  the  sight-bole  of  the  pilot  house,  and 


was  succeeded  by  Lieutenant  Samuel  Dana 
Greene. 

Page  468.  THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  The  fleet 
which  Farragut  took  upon  this  desperate  ven 
ture  consisted  of  nine  gunboats  and  eight  sloops 
of  war.  The  defences  of  New  Orleans  were 
of  the  most  formidable  kind,  the  river  being 
guarded  by  Forts  Jackson  and  St.  Philip,  mount 
ing  116  guns,  and  by  a  strong  fleet  of  gunboats 
and  ironclads,  under  command  of  Commodore 
J.  K.  Mitchell.  The  river  was  also  barred  by  a 
great  raft  thrown  across  it  under  the  guns  of 
the  forts,  and  a  large  number  of  long  flatboats, 
filled  with  pine  knots,  were  held  in  readiness  by 
the  Confederates  to  be  fired  and  sent  down  the 
swift  current  into  the  midst  of  the  Union  fleet. 
In  spite  of  all  this,  after  the  terrific  fight  was 
over,  it  was  found  that  the  Union  loss  was  only 
thirty-seven  killed  and  one  hundred  and  forty- 
seven  wounded.  The  Confederate  loss  was 
never  accurately  determined. 

Admiral  Farragut  was  so  impressed  with 
Brownell's  poem  that  he  sought  out  the  author 
and  a  warm  friendship  followed.  When  Mobile 
was  captured,  Brownell  was  a  guest  of  the  Ad 
miral  on  board  his  flagship,  the  Hartford,  and 
the  result  was  another  spirited  poem,  "  The 
Bay  Fight,"  which  appears  elsewhere  in  this 
collection. 

Page  471.  Our  fair  Church  pennant  waves. 
The  church  pennant  is  made  of  white  bunting 
on  which  is  sewn  a  cross  of  blue. 

Page  478.  Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell. 
The  reference  is  to  Dr.  Reuben  Crandall,  of 
Washington,  who,  in  1834,  was  arrested  and 
confined  in  the  old  city  prison  until  his  health 
was  destroyed,  his  offence  having  been  in  lend 
ing  to  a  brother  physician  a  copy  of  Whittier's 
pamphlet,  "Justice  and  Expediency." 

Page  483.  STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY. 
"  These  verses,"  according  to  William  Gilmore 
Simms,  "  were  found,  stained  with  blood,  in 
the  breast  of  a  dead  soldier  of  the  old  Stone 
wall  Brigade,  after  one  of  Jackson's  battles 
in  the  Shenandoah  Valley."  Though  widely 
copied,  their  authorship  remained  unknown 
for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

Page  493.  John  Burns.  John  Burns  was 
seventy  years  of  age  in  1863.  He  had  been 
among  the  first  to  volunteer  for  the  War  of 
1812,  and  was  present  at  the  battles  of  Platts- 
burg,  Queenstown.  and  Lundy's  Lane.  He 
served  through  the  war  with  Mexico,  and 
volunteered  promptly  for  the  Civil  War,  fras 
rejected  because  of  his  age,  served  for  a  time 
as  a  teamster,  but  was  finally  sent  home  to 
Gettysburg,  where  his  townsmen  made  him 
constable  to  keep  him  busy  and  contented. 
When,  in  June,  1863,  the  Confederates  occupied 
the  town,  Burns  had  to  be  locked  up  for  assert 
ing  his  civil  authority  in  opposition  to  that  of 
the  Confederate  provost  guard.  As  soon  as 
the  Confederates  left  the  town,  Burns  busied 
himself  arresting  Confederate  stragglers. 
When  the  preliminary  skirmishing  at  Gettys 
burg  began,  Burns  borrowed  a  rifle  and  ammu 
nition  from  a  wounded  Union  soldier,  went  to 


NOTES 


695 


the  front,  and  offered  his  services  as  volunteer. 
The  colonel  of  the  Seventh  Wisconsin  loaned 
him  a  long-range  rifle,  which  he  used  with 
deadly  effect  all  day,  but  he  was  badly  wounded 
when  the  Union  troops  were  forced  back,  was 
captured  by  the  Confederates,  and  narrowly 
escaped  being  hanged  as  an  un-uniformed  com 
batant.  He  lived  in  his  little  home  on  the 
battlefield  until  1872,  and  was  visited  by  thou 
sands  and  thousands  of  pilgrims  to  the  scene 
of  the  great  struggle. 

Page  500.  THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  FREEDOM. 
The  popularity  of  the  songs  sung  by  the  armies 
of  both  North  and  South  seems  to  have  been  in 
direct  ratio  to  their  maudlin  sentimentality. 
Most  popular  of  all  was  the  song  known  as 
"  When  this  Cruel  War  is  Over."  It  was  heard 
in  every  camp,  north  and  south,  many  times  a 
day,  the  Southern  soldiers  inserting  "gray" 
for  ''  blue  "  in  the  sixth  line  of  the  first  stanza 
with  a  cheerful  disregard  of  the  rhyme.  It 
was  sung  in  public  gatherings,  in  the  home  — 
in  fact,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  other  song  was  ever 
upon  so  many  American  tongues.  This  wide 
appeal  gives  it,  in  a  way,  a  historic  interest, 
which  warrants  its  inclusion  here. 

WHEN  THIS  CRUEL  WAR  IS  OVER 

Dearest  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  last  did  meet, 
How  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me, 

Kneeling  at  my  feet  ? 
Oh,  how  proud  you  stood  before  me, 

In  your  suit  of  blue, 
When  you  vowed  to  me  and  country 

Ever  to  be  true. 

Chorus  —  Weeping,  sad  and  lonely, 

Hopes  and  fears  how  vain ; 
Yet  praying  when  this  cruel  war  is  over, 
Praying  that  we  meet  again. 

When  the  summer  breeze  is  sighing 

Mournfully  along, 
Or  when  autumn  leaves  are  falling, 

Sadly  breathes  the  song. 
Oft  in  dreams  I  see  thee  lying 

On  the  battle  plain, 
Lonely,  wounded,  even  dying, 

Calling,  but  in  vain. 

If,  amid  the  din  of  battle, 

Nobly  you  should  fall, 
Far  away  from  those  who  love  you, 

None  to  hear  you  call, 
Who  would  whisper  words  of  comfort  ? 

Who  would  soothe  your  pain  ? 
Ah,  the  many  cruel  fancies 

Ever  in  my  brain  ! 

But  our  country  called  you,  darling, 

Angels  cheer  your  way  ! 
When  our  nation's  sons  are  fighting, 

We  can  only  pray. 
Nobly  strike  for  God  and  country, 

Let  all  nations  see 
How  we  love  the  starry  banner, 

Emblem  of  the  free. 

CHARLES  CARROLL  SAWYER. 

Page  50(3.  Out  on  a  crag  walked  something. 
The  flag  was  unfurled  from  Pulpit  Rock,  on 


the  extreme  point  of  the  mountain  overlooking 
Chattanooga.  It  was  from  that  "  pulpit "  that 
Jefferson  Davis,  three  days  before,  had  ad 
dressed  his  troops,  assuring  them  that  all  was 
well  with  the  Confederacy. 

Page  SOU.  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CLOUDS. 
"  The  day  had  been  one  of  dense  mists  and 
rains,  and  much  of  General  Hooker's  battle  \vas 
fought  above  the  clouds,  on  the  top  of  Lookout 
Mountain."  —  General  Meigs's  Report. 

Page  508.  And  the  one  white  Fang  under 
neath.  Robert  Gould  Shaw  was  only  twenty- 
five  years  of  age  when  he  was  killed  at  the 
head  of  his  regiment  at  Fort  Wagner.  He  had 
enlisted  as  a  private  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war,  and  soon  rose  to  a  captaincy.  He  was  ap 
pointed  colonel  of  the  Fifty-Fourth  Massachu 
setts,  the  first  regiment  of  colored  troops  from 
a  free  state,  April  17,  1863,  and  went  to  his 
death  with  them  three  months  later.  See  also 
"  Ode  on  the  Unveiling  of  theShaw  Memorial," 
page  603,  and  u  An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation," 
page  646. 

Page  510.  LOGAN  AT  PEACH  TREE  CREEK. 
Mr.  Garland  is  mistaken  in  stating  that  Mc- 
Pherson  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Peachtree 
Creek,  which  was  fought  on  July  20,  lfc'64.  He 
was  killed  two  days  later,  at  what  is  known  as 
the  battle  of  Atlanta.  While  hastening  to  join 
his  troops,  who  had  just  been  attacked  by  the 
Confederates,  he  ran  full  into  the  enemy's 
skirmish  line  and  was  shot  while  trying  to  es 
cape.  Sherman  at  once  ordered  General  John 
A.  Logan  to  assume  command  of  the  Army  of 
the  Tennessee,  and  it  was  largely  due  to  General 
Logan's  skill  and  determination  that  the  Union 
army  was  saved  from  serious  disaster  in  the 
desperate  battle  which  followed. 

Page  512.  SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA. 
General  Sherman,  in  his  Memoirs,  says  that  on 
the  afternoon  of  February  17,  1865,  while  over 
hauling  his  pockets,  according  to  his  custom, 
to  read  more  carefully  the  various  notes  and 
memoranda  received  during  the  day,  he  found 
a  paper  which  had  been  given  him  by  a  Union 
prisoner  who  had  escaped  from  Columbia.  It 
proved  to  be  "  Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea," 
composed  by  Adjutant  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  of  the 
Fifth  Iowa  Infantry,  while  a  prisoner  at 
Columbia.  General  Sherman  was  so  impressed 
by  the  verses  that  he  immediately  sent  for 
their  author  and  attached  him  to  his  staff. 

Page  513.  MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA. 
General  Sherman  makes  no  reference  in  his 
Memoirs  to  these  verses  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  replace  them  with  Adjutant  Byers's 
song.  They  were,  however,  widely  popular 
and,  indeed,  still  hold  an  honored  place  at  every 
reunion  of  Civil  War  veterans. 

Page  517.  O  noble  son  of  noble  sire.  Ulric 
Dahlgren  was  the  son  of  John  Adolph  Dahlgren, 
perhaps  the  greatest  chief  of  ordnance  the  Navy 
Department  has  ever  had.  Ulric  was  only 
twenty-two  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  his 
death.  He  had  lost  a  leg  at  Gettysburg  the 
year  before,  but  had  returned  to  active  service 
upon  his  recovery  although  compelled  to  walk 


696 


NOTES 


on  crutches.  He  had  planned  the  expedition 
in  which  he  lost  his  life. 

Page  519.  When  Stuart  to  the  grave  we  bore. 
The  loss  of  Stuart  was  one  of  the  most  serious 
the  Confederacy  had  sustained  since  the  death 
of  Stonewall  Jackson.  He  was,  in  many  re 
spects,  the  most  brilliant  cavalry  leader  de 
veloped  on  either  side  during  the  war,  though 
it  was  alleged  that  his  unauthorized  absence 
from  the  field  of  Gettysburg  contributed  greatly 
to  the  defeat  of  Lee's  army. 

Page  522.  THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.  A  re 
markable  evidence  of  the  elasticity  of  spirit 
shown  by  the  losers  in  the  great  struggle  is  the 
fact  that  this  song,  which  one  would  suppose 
would  be  particularly  offensive  to  them,  became 
even  more  popular  in  the  South  than  in  the 
North. 

Page  524.  THE  SURRENDER  AT  APPOMAT- 
TOX.  Lee's  army,  at  the  time  of  the  surrender, 
consisted  of  about  twenty-eight  thousand  men, 
nearly  half  of  whom  were  without  arms.  His 
army  had  had  little  to  eat  for  several  days  ex 
cept  parched  corn,  and  was  upon  the  verge  of 
starvation.  Immediately  after  the  surrender, 
Grant  sent  twenty-five  thousand  rations  into  the 
Confederate  lines. 

Page  524.  LEE'S  PAROLE.  Grant's  be 
havior  was  marked  throughout  with  the 
greatest  delicacy.  He  did  not  ask  Lee's  sword, 
promptly  stopped  salutes  which  were  started 
after  the  surrender,  did  not  require  the  Con 
federates  to  march  out  and  stack  arms,  and  did 
not  enter  their  lines.  The  terms  of  surrender 
were  so  liberal  that  many  partisans  at  the 
North  took  violent  exception  to  them. 

Page  525.  The  Cherbourg  cliff's  were  all  alive. 
A  great  throng  had  gathered  to  witness  the 
fight,  which  had  been  advertised  as  a  sort  of 
gala  event,  excursions  even  being  run  from 
Paris.  The  sympathies  of  the  crowd  were  all 
with  the  Alabama. 

Page  525.  When,  lo !  roared  a  broadside. 
The  firing  of  the  Kearsarge  was  a  magnificent 
exhibition  of  gunnery.  She  fired  173  missiles, 
nearly  all  of  which  took  effect.  The  Alabama 
fired  370,  of  which  only  28  struck.  The  Kear- 
sarge's  11 -inch  shells  were  aimed  a  little  below 
the  water  line,  with  such  deadly  effect  that  the 
Alabama  sank  in  a  little  more  than  an  hour 
after  going  into  action. 

Page  526.  KEARSARGE.  On  Sunday  morn 
ing1,  June  19, 1864,  the  noise  of  the  cannons  dur 
ing  the  fight  between  the  Kearsarge  and  the 
Alabama  was  heard  in  English  churches  near 
the  Channel. — Author's  note. 

Page  527.  Though  unequal  in  strength.  The 
Kearsarge  had  a  displacement  of  1031  tons,  car 
ried  a  crew  of  163,  and  mounted  seven  guns, 
throwing  3(!6  pounds.  The  Alabama  was  of 
1016  tons  displacement,  carried  a  crew  of  149 
and  eight  guns,  throwing  328  pounds.  The 
ships  were  remarkably  well  matched. 

Page  527.  Shall  shine  in  tradition  the  valor 
of  Semmes.  A  bitter  controversy  followed  the 
fight  as  to  whether  the  Alabama  actually 
surrendered.  The  preponderance  of  evidence 


shows  that  her  colors  were  hauled  down  and  a 
white  flag  displayed  a  few  minutes  before  she 
sank.  The  British  steam  yacht  Deerhound 
picked  up  forty-two  men,  including  Semmes  and 
fourteen  officers,  and  made  off  with  them  to 
Southampton.  The  British  Government  after 
wards  refused  to  surrender  these  men.  It  is 
consoling  to  reflect  that  England's  aid  to  Con 
federate  privateers  cost  her,  in  the  end,  over 
fifteen  million  dollars. 

Page  527.  CRAVEN.  Craven  has  been  called 
the  Sidney  of  the  American  navy.  His  pilot's 
name  was  John  Collins,  and  as  the  Tecumseh 
was  going  down,  he  and  Craven  met  at  the  foot 
of  the  ladder  leading  to  the  top  of  the  turret. 
Craven  stepped  back,  saying^  "After  you, 
Pilot."  As  the  pilot  reached  the  top  round  of 
the  ladder,  the  vessel  seemed  "  to  drop  from 
under  him,"  and  no  one  followed.  A  buoy 
marks  the  spot. 

Page  528.  Sidney.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who 
is  said  to  have  refused  a  cup  of  water  while 
lying  mortally  wounded  on  the  battlefield  of 
Zutphen,  in  order  to  give  it  to  a  wounded  sol 
dier. 

Page  528.  Nelson.  Admiral  Horatio  Nelson. 
The  reference  is  to  the  Battle  of  the  Nile,  where 
Nelson  was  severely  wounded. 

Page  528.  Lucas.  A  young  English  captain, 
who  was  imprisoned  by  Hyder  Ali  in  178  '.  To 
relieve  a  wounded  comrade,  Captain  Baird,  he 
assumed  two  sets  of  chains. 

Page  528.  Outram.  Sir  James  Outram,  who, 
in  admiration  for  the  brilliant  deeds  of  his  sub 
ordinate,  General  Havelock,  conceded  him  the 
glory  of  relieving  Lucknow,  in  1!?57,  waiving 
his  own  rank  and  tendering  his  services  as  a 
volunteer. 

Page  530.  THE  BAY  FIGHT.  Farragut  took 
only  a  short  vacation  after  his  triumphant 
"River  Fight,''  and  began  at  once  to  prepare 
for  another  desperate  encounter.  The  defences 
of  Mobile  were  among  the  strongest  in  the 
South.  Three  forts,  mounting  seventy-one  guns, 
guarded  the  channel,  which  was  further  de 
fended  by  a  double  row  of  torpedoes,  one  hun 
dred  and  eighty_  in  number.  Besides  this,  there 
was  in  the  bay  itself  a  Confederate  fleet  of  four 
vessels,  one  of  which  was  the  great  ram  Ten 
nessee. 

Farragut's  fleet  was  the  most  formidable  col 
lection  of  war  vessels  that  had  ever  been  assem 
bled  under  command  of  one  man.  It  surpassed 
in  power  for  destruction  the  combined  English, 
French,  and  Spanish  fleets  at  Trafalgar.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  the  desperate  nature  of  the  struggle 
which  followed,  the  loss  was  less  than  in  many 
a  skirmish  on  land,  that  in  the  Union  fleet  being 
52  killed  and  170  wounded,  besides  93  drowned 
in  the  Tecumseh,  while  the  Confederate  loss 
was  only  12  killed  and  20  wounded. 

Page  535.  "ALBEMARLE"  GUSHING.  Lieu 
tenant  Gushing  was  only  twenty-one  years  of 
age  at  the  time  he  sunk  the  Albemarle,  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  gallant  exploits  of  the 
war.  The  deed  was  rendered  extremely  difficult 
by  the  fact  that  the  Albemarle  had  been  sur- 


NOTES 


697 


rounded  by  a  cordon  of  timber,  and  Gushing 
actually  drove  his  launch  at  full  speed  over  this 
in  order  to  reach  the  Albemarle's  side.  He  re 
ceived  the  thanks  of  Congress  and  was  made 
lieutenant-commander  as  a  reward  for  his 
heroism. 

Page  539.  PARDON.  John  Wilkes  Booth 
was  a  son  of  Junius  Brutus  Booth  and  was 
twenty-six  years  old  at  the  time  of  the  assassi 
nation.  His  success  as  an  actor  had  never  been 
notable.  There  is  some  dispute  as  to  whether 
he  was  hit  by  the  bullet  which  Boston  Corbett 
fired  at  him,  or  whether  he  shot  himself.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  brought  out  of  the  barn  in 
which  he  had  been  cornered  with  a  bulletin  the 
base  of  his  brain,  and  with  his  body  paralyzed. 
He  died  the  following  morning.  Eight  accom 
plices  were  arrested,  tried  by  a  military  com 
mission,  and  found  guilty.  Four,  one  a  woman, 
were  hanged,  and  the  others,  with  one  excep 
tion,  sentenced  to  hard  labor  for  life. 

Page  542.  Treason  is  not  dead.  The  charge 
and  specification  on  which  the  conspirators 
were  arraigned  declared  that  they  were  "in 
cited  and  encouraged  "  to  the  crime  by  Jeffer 
son  Davis,  and  a  reward  of  one  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  was  offered  for  his  arrest.  There 
was  at  no  time  any  trustworthy  evidence  im 
plicating  Davis. 

Page  539.  Pillow's  ghastly  stain.  Fort  Pil 
low,  situated  on  the  Mississippi  River  about 
forty  miles  above  Memphis,  was  captured, 
April  12,  1864,  by  a  large  Confederate  force 
under  General  N.  B.  Forrest.  The  garrison 
consisted  of  '293  white  and  262  colored  troops, 
of  whom  221  were  killed  and  130  wounded. 
Most  of  the  killed  and  wounded  were  negroes, 
many  of  whom  were  shot  down  after  the  fort 
had  been  captured.  There  is  no  evidence,  how 
ever,  that  the  massacre,  if  it  can  be  called  such, 
was  premeditated,  and  General  Forrest  seems 
to  have  stopped  it  as  promptly  as  he  could. 

Page  559.  "  MR.  JOHNSON'S  POLICY  OF  RE 
CONSTRUCTION."  The  "policy"  consisted  of 
two  papers,  one  a  proclamation  of  amnesty 
granting  a  pardon  for  treason  to  all,  with  some 
exceptions,  who  should  take  an  oath  to  support 
the  Constitution  and  the  Union  and  to  obey  all 
laws  and  proclamations  which  had  been  made 
with  reference  to  the  emancipation  of  the 
slaves  ;  the  second  an  executive  order  intrust 
ing  the  state  governments  to  the  people  who 
had  taken  this  oath.  That  the  plan  did  not 
succeed  was  due  in  no  small  part  to  the  folly  of 
the  newly  constituted  legislatures  in  immedi 
ately  proceeding  to  pass  various  restrictive  laws 
aimed  at  the  negro,  the  effect  of  which  would 
be  to  deprive  him,  in  large  part,  of  his  newly 
acquired  freedom. 

Page  560.  Crippled  and  halting  from  his  birth. 
Stevens  had  a  club  foot,  and  was  compelled  to 
use  a  cane  in  walking. 

Page  563.  THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY.  The 
poem  grew  out  of  an  item  which  appeared  in 
the  New  York  "Tribune,"  in  1867:  "The 
women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  animated  by 
nobler  sentiments  than  many  of  their  sisters, 


have  shown  themselves  impartial  in  their  offer 
ings  made  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  They 
strewed  flowers  alike  on  the  graves  of  the  Con 
federate  and  of  the  National  soldiers."  The 
poem,  prefaced  by  this  item,  was  first  published 
in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly  "  for  September,  1867, 
and  at  once  attracted  wide  attention. 

Page  565.  How  CYRUS  LAID  THE  CABLE. 
Mr.  Field  had  been  working  at  this  project  since 
1854.  In  1858  he  had  succeeded  in  laying  a 
cable  across  the  ocean,  and  it  was  in  operation 
from  August  17  to  September  4,  when  the  sig 
nals  became  unintelligible  and  finally  ceased 
altogether.  The  story  of  his  perseverance  and 
final  success  is  an  inspiring  one. 

Page  565.  O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity.  The 
American  end  of  the  cable  was  landed  at  Trin 
ity  Bay,  Newfoundland. 

Page  568.  Small  need  to  open  the  Washington 
main.  Gould  had  persuaded  President  Grant 
that  a  rise  in  gold  while  the  crops  were  moving 
would  advantage  the  country,  and  early  in  Sep 
tember  the  treasury  department  was  instructed 
to  sell  only  gold  sufficient  to  buy  bonds  for  the 
sinking  fund.  Gould  saw  that  the  "  Washing 
ton  main  "  could  not  be  kept  closed  indefinitely, 
however,  and  unloaded  secretly,  leaving  his 
partner,  "  Jim  "  Fisk,  to  look  out  for  himself, 
risk's  broker,- "Speyers,  continued  to  run  up  the 
price  of  gold,  until  his  bid  reached  163£,  when 
the  market  broke,  the  price  falling  almost  in 
stantly  to  133.  Fisk  saved  himself  by  coolly  re 
pudiating  his  contracts. 

Page  580.  DOWN  THE  LITTLE  Bio  HORN. 
Custer,  who  was  thirty-seven  years  old  at  the 
time  of  his  death,  had  served  with  great  dis 
tinction  through  the  Civil  War.  He  was  bit 
terly  censured  for  accepting  battle  upon  the 
Little  Big  Horn,  and  accused  of  disobedience 
of  orders,  but  no  basis  for  this  accusation  was 
ever  clearly  shown. 

Page  580.  Just  from  the  canyon  emerging. 
Custer  and  the  five  companies  with  him  ad 
vanced  without  hesitation  into  the  jaws  of 
death,  for  they  were  outnumbered  twelve  to 
one.  They  dismounted  and  planted  themselves 
on  two  little  hills  a  short  distance  apart.  The 
Indians  stampeded  their  horses,  waited  till 
their  ammunition  was  exhausted,  and  then 
overwhelmed  them. 

Page  580.  Sitting  Bull.  Sitting  Bull,  who 
commanded  the  Indians,  was  a  Sioux  chief  and 
was  born  about  1837.  He  was  killed  during  the 
Sioux  outbreak  of  December,  1890. 

Page  583.  In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull.  There 
was  no  ambush.  The  battle  was  fought  in  the 
open,  from  high  ground.  Custer's  surprise  lay 
not  in  finding  the  Indians  before  him,  but  in 
finding  them  so  fatally  numerous. 

Page  584.  The  brave  heart.  Two  days  after 
the  battle,  a  detachment  of  cavalry  discovered 
the  bodies  of  Custer  and  his  five  companies. 
Custer  alone  had  not  been  mutilated.  He  had 
been  shot  in  the  left  temple,  and  lay  as  though 
peacefully  sleeping. 

Page  593.  THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE.  The 
bridge  had  been  begun  January  3,  1870,  and 


698 


NOTES 


was  not  wholly  completed  at  the  time  of  its 
opening  in  1883.  Its  cost  was  about  twenty 
million  dollars. 

Page  615.  Bocagrande.  The  main  channel 
into  Manila  Bay  south  of  Corregidor  Island. 
It  means,  literally,  "large  mouth." 

Page  616.  Montojo.  Admiral  Patricio  Mon- 
tojo  y  Pasarou,  commander  of  the  Spanish 
naval  forces  in  the  Philippines. 

Page  616.  Gridley.  Charles  Vernon  Gridley 
(1845-1898),  captain  of  Admiral  Dewey's  flag 
ship,  the  Olympia. 

Page  626.  EIGHT  VOLUNTEERS.  Besides 
Hobson,  the  volunteers  were  Osborn  Deignan, 
a  coxswain  of  the  Merrimac  ;  George  F.  Phillips, 
a  machinist  of  the  Merrimac  ;  John  Kelly,  a 
water-tender  of  the  Merrimac ;  George  Cha- 
rette,  a  gunner's  mate  of  the  New  York  ;  Daniel 
Montagu,  a  seaman  of  the  Brooklyn ;  J.  C. 
Murphy,  a  coxswain  of  the  Iowa  ;  and  Randolph 
Clausen,  a  coxswain  of  the  New  York. 

Page  628.  Once  more  the  Flower  of  Essex. 
See  "The  Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Bloody 
Brook,"  page  82. 

.  Page  631.  WHEELER  AT  SANTIAGO.  "Fight 
ing  Joe"  Wheeler  was  one  of  the  most  active 
and  successful  cavalry  leaders  of  the  Confeder 
acy.  The  death  of  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  in 
1864,  made  him  senior  cavalry  general  of  the 
Confederate  armies.  He  served  in  Congress 
after  the  war,  and  volunteered  for  active  ser 
vice  on  the  outbreak  of  the  war  with  Spain. 
He  was  given  command  of  a  cavalry  brigade, 
and  his  presence  before  Santiago  was  of  ines 
timable  value. 

Page  633.  Near  Nimanima's  greening  hill. 
The  cove,  six  and  a  half  miles  from  the  en 
trance  to  Santiago  harbor,  where  the  Infanta 
Maria  Teresa  was  beached.  Juan  Gonzales  is 
seven  miles  and  Aserradero  fifteen  miles  from 
Santiago. 

Page  633.  The  Cape  o'  the  Cross.  Cape  Cruz, 
at  the  southwestern  extremity  of  Cuba. 


Page  641.  Who  on  the  third  most  famous  of 
our  Fourths.  July  4,  1776,  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  adopted.  July  4, 1 863,  announce 
ment  of  the  victory  at  Gettysburg.  July  4, 
1898,  announcement  of  the  victory  at  Santiago. 

Page  645.  AGUINALDO.  Emilio  Aguinaldo 
was  born  in  1870,  of  Chinese  and  Tagalog  par 
entage.  He  received  a  good  education,  became 
interested  in  military  affairs,  and  was  one  of 
the  lead_ers  of  the  outbreak  against  Spanish  au 
thority  in  1896.  At  the  beginning  of  the  Span 
ish-American  war,  Admiral  Dewey  sent  for 
Aguinaldo,  who  arrived  at  Cavite"  a  few  days 
after  the  destruction  of  the  Spanish  fleet.  He 
at  once  began  the  organization  of  the  Filipino 
troops,  and  soon  afterwards  proclaimed  himself 
dictator  of  the  so-called  Filipino  Republic.  He 
stoutly  resisted  the  American  occupation  which 
followed  the  peace,  but  was  captured  in  1901, 
and  finally  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the 
United  States. 

Page  645.  Strike  at  his  mother  and  his  child. 
Aguinaldo's  family  was  captured  by  the  United 
States  troops  and  held  prisoners  until  his  sub 
mission. 

Page  645.  When  they  read  the  sneering  com 
ments.  The  fact  that  no  prisoners  were  taken 
at  the  fight  at  Da  jo,  and  that  many  women  and 
children  were  among  the  killed,  caused  much 
bitter  comment.  The  poem  gives  the  army's 
side  of  the  controversy. 

Page  646.  Before  the  living  bronze  Saint- 
Gaudens  made.  See  "  Bury  Them,"  page  508, 
and  "An  Ode  on  the  Unveiling  of  the  Shaw 
Memorial,"  page  603. 

Page  650.  The  assassin's  shot.  The  assassin 
was  a  young  Pole  named  Leon  Czolgosz,  who 
proclaimed  himself  an  anarchist.  He  was  tried 
speedily,  sentenced  to  electrocution,  and  exe 
cuted  October  28. 

Page  651.  "Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 
From  Keats's  sonnet,  "On  First  Looking  into 
Chapman's  Homer." 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey  [1836-1907]:  Fredericks- 
burg,  449;  By  the  Potomac,  449;  The  Bells  at 
Midnight,  588;  An  Ode  on  the  Unveiling-  of  the 
Shaw  Memorial,  603;  Unguarded  Gates,  659. 

Alexander,  S.  J.:  To  San  Francisco,  657. 

Alston,  Joseph  Blynth:  "Stack  Arms,"  545. 

Andre,  John  [1751-1780]:  The  Cow-Chace,  233. 

Andrews,  Charlton:  Our  Modest  Doughboys,  671. 

Andrews,  Mary  Raymond  Shipman:  A  Call  to 
Arms,  668. 

Arnold,  Edwin  [1832-1904]:  Darien,  651. 

Austin,  Alfred  [1835-1913]:  Britannia  to  Columbia, 
654. 

Babcock,  William  Henry  [1849-  ]:  Benning- 
ton,  196. 

Bailey,  Lansing  C.:  Eight  Volunteers,  626. 

Ballard,  C.  R.:  The  Pacific  Railway,  579. 

Bangs,  Edward  [fl.  1775]:  The  Yankee's  Return 
from  Camp,  159. 

Banker,  William,  Jr.:  The  Battle  of  Queenstown, 
292. 

Barlow,  Joel  [1754-1812]:  The  First  American 
Congress,  273;  On  the  Discoveries  of  Captain 
Lewis,  341. 

Bates,  Charlotte  Fiske.  See  Rog6. 

Beers,  Mrs.  Ethelinda  [1827-1879]:  The  Picket- 
Guard,  433. 

Bell,  Maurice:  The  Alabama,  527. 

Bell,  Walker  Meriwether:  Jefferson  Davis,  545. 

Benjamin,  Park  [1809-1864]:  To  Arms,  363. 

Benton,  Joel  [1832-         ]:  Grover  Cleveland,  658. 

Block,  Louis  James  [1851-  ]:  The  Final  Strug 
gle,  11. 

Boker,  George  Henry  [1823-1890]:  Upon  the  Hill 
before  Centreville,  420;  Dirge  for  a  Soldier,  442; 
The  Crossing  at  Fredericksburg,  446;  Zagonyi, 
453;  On  Board  the  Cumberland,  464;  The  Cruise 
of  the  Monitor,  467 ;  The  Ballad  of  New  Orleans, 
472;  The  Varuna,  474;  Hooker's  Across,  483; 
Before  Vicksburg,  499;  The  Black  Regiment, 
500;  The  Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain,  505. 

Botwood,  Edward  [c  1730-1759]:  Hot  Stuff,  121. 

Bouv6,  Thomas  Tracy  [1875-  ]:  The  Shannon 
and  the  Chesapeake,  300. 

Bowen,  John  Eliot  [1858-1890]:  The  Man  who  rode 
to  Conemaugh,  599. 

Boyle,  Mrs.  Virginia  Fraser:  Tennessee,  603. 

Bradford,  William  [c  1590-1657]:  New  England's 
Growth,  69. 

Brainard,  John  Gardiner  Calkins  [1796-1828]:  On 
the  Death  of  Commodore  Oliver  H.  Perry,  347. 

Bridges,  Robert  [1844-  ]:  To  the  United  States 
of  America,  666. 

Bridges,  Robert  [1858-  ]:  A  Toast  to  Our  Na 
tive  Land,  6-49. 

Brooks,  Charles  Timothy  [1813-1883]:  A  Plea  for 
Flood  Ireson,  284. 


Brooks,  Francis  [1867-1898]:  Down  the  Little  Big 
Horn,  580. 

Brown,  Irene  Fowler:  The  Rear  Guard,  562. 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard  [1820-1872]:  The  Battle  of 
Charlestown,  395;  The  Old  Cove,  401 :  Sumter, 
408;  The  Eagle  of  Corinth,  458;  The  River  Fight, 
468;  Bury  Them,  508;  The  Bay  Fight,  530. 

Bruce,  Wallace  [1844-  ]:  Parson  Allen's  Ride, 
194. 

Bruns,  John  Dickson:  The  Foe  at  the  Gates,  516. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen  [1794-1878]:  The  Green 
Mountain  Boys,  157;  Seventy-Six,  191;  Song  of 
Marion's  Men,  248;  "Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty 
Race,"  268;  Our  Country's  Call,  410;  Abraham 
Lincoln,  540;  Centennial  Hymn,  574. 

Burnet,  Dana  [1888-         ]:  Marching  Song,  671. 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine  [1878-  ]:  Pershing  at  the 
Tomb  of  Lafayette,  667. 

Burroughs,  Alethea  S. :  Savannah,  514. 

Burton,  Richard  [1859-  ]:  The  Old  Santa  F6 
Trail,  346. 

Butterworth,  Hezekiah  [1837-1905]:  The  Thanks 
giving  for  America,  15;  The  Legend  of  Waukulla, 
19;  The  Fountain  of  Youth,  21;  Verazzuno,  25; 
Ortiz,  26;  Five  Kernels  of  Corn,  62;  The  Thanks 
giving  in  Boston  Harbor,  67;  Roger  Williams, 
72;  Whitman's  Ride  for  Oregon,  342;  The  Death 
of  Jefferson,  349;  Garfield's  Ride  at  Chicka- 
mauga,  503;  The  Church  of  the  Revolution,  570. 

Byers,  Samuel  Hawkins  Marshall  [1838-  ]: 
With  Corse  at  Allatoona,  511;  Sherman's  March 
to  the  Sea,  512. 

Bynner,  Witter  [1881-  ]:  Republic  to  Republic. 
666. 

Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel  [1788-1824]:  Washing 
ton,  276. 

Calvert,  George  Henry  [1803-1889]:  Bunker  Hill, 
162. 

Campbell,  William  W.  [1806-1881]:  With  Cortez 
in  Mexico,  24. 

Carleton,  William  [1845-1912]:  The  Prize  of  the 
Margaretta,  155;  Across  the  Delaware,  188;  The 
Little  Black-Eyed  Rebel,  209;  Cuba  to  Colum 
bia,  608;  The  Victory- Wreck,  627. 

Carryl,  Guy  Wetmore  [1873-1904]:  When  the  Great 
Gray  Ships  come  in,  640. 

Cary,  Phoebe  [1824-1871]:  Ready,  461;  Peace,  548. 
Thaddeus  Stevens,  560. 

Cawein,  Madison  [1865-1914]:  Mosby  at  Hamil 
ton,  482;  Ku-Kluz,  562;  "Mene,  Mene,  Tekel, 
Upharsin,"  620. 

Chadwick,  John  White  [1840-1904]:  Mugford's 
Victory,  174;  Full  Cycle,  640. 

Chambers,  Robert  William  [1866-  ]:  The 
"Grey  Horse  Troop,"  585. 

Cheney,  John  Vance  [1848-1922]:  San  Francisco, 
657. 


yoo 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS 


Clarke,  Ednah  Proctor.  See  Hayes. 

Clarke,  Joseph  Ignatius  Constantine  [1846-  ]: 
The  Fighting  Race,  611. 

Cloud,  Virginia  Woodward  [187  -  J:  The  Bal 
lad  of  Sweet  P,  186. 

Coates,  Mrs.  Florence  Earle  [1850-  ]:  By  the 
Conemaugh,  599;  Buffalo,  649. 

Conkling,  Grace  Hazard  [1878-  ]:  Victory  Bells, 
673. 

Cooke,  Edmund  Vance  [1866-  ]:  "Off  Ma- 
nilly,"  618. 

Cooke,  Mrs.  Rose  Terry  [1827-1892]:  The  Death  of 
Goody  Nurse,  90. 

Cornwall,  H.  S.:  Jefferson  D.,  401. 

Cornwallis,  Kinahan  [1835-  ]:  The  Battle  of 
Murfreesboro,  459. 

Cox,  Eleanor  Rogers  [      -       ]:  The  Return,  676. 

Coxe,  Arthur  Cleveland  [1818-1896]:  America,  2. 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse  [1813-1892]:  After  the 
Centennial,  578. 

Crawford,  Francis  Marion  [1854-1909]:  New  Na 
tional  Hymn,  596. 

Crosby,  Ernest  Howard  [1856-1906]:  "Rebels," 
643. 

Cullen,  Cornelius  C.:  Battle  of  Somerset,  454. 

Dandridge,  Mrs.  Danske  [1864-        ]:  On  the  Eve 

of  War,  612. 

De  Kay,  Charles  [1848-        ]:  The  Draft  Riot,  496. 
Dobson,    Austin    [1840-1921]:    "When    there    is 

Peace,"  678. 

Dorr,  Henry  R.:  Comrades,  629. 
Drake,  Joseph  Rodman  [1795-1820]:  The  American 

Flag,  192;    To  the  Defenders  of  New  Orleans, 

326. 
Dray  ton,  Michael  [1563-1631]:  To  the  Virginian 

Voyage,  42. 
Duer,  Caroline  King  [1865-        ]:  An  International 

Episode,  598. 
Duganne,  Augustine  Joseph  Hickey  [1823-1884]- 

Bethel,  417. 
Dwight,  Timothy  [1752-1817]:  The  Assault  on  the 

Fortress,   70;   Columbia,    180;   To   the   Federal 

Convention,  270. 

Eastman,  Barrett  [1869-  ]:  How  we  burned 
the  Philadelphia,  281. 

Eastman,  Sophie  E.:  A  Spool  of  Thread,  402. 

Elam,  William  C.:  The  Mecklenburg  Declaration, 
156. 

Ellsworth,  Erastus  Wolcott  [1822-  ]:  The 
Mayflower,  59. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo  [1803-1882]:  Concord 
Hymn,  351 ;  Boston  Hymn,  478. 

English,  Thomas  Dunn  [1819-1902]:  The  Fall  of 
Maubila,  27;  The  Burning  of  Jamestown,  44; 
The  Sack  of  Deerfield,  102;  Assunpink  and 
Princeton,  188;  Arnold  at  Stillwater,  200;  The 
Battle  of  Monmoutb,  211;  Betty  Zane,  216;  The 
Battle  of  the  Cowpens,  252;  The  Battle  of  New 
Orleans,  323;  Battle  of  the  King's  Mill,  370;  The 
Charge  by  the  Ford,  438. 

Farrar,  John  Chipman  [  -  ]:  Brest  Left  Be 
hind,  674. 

Fessenden,  Thomas  Green  [1771-1837]:  Ye  Sons  of 
Columbia,  278. 


Fields,  Mrs.  Annie  Adams  [1834-  ]:  Cedar 
Mountain,  441. 

Finch,  Francis  Miles  [1827-1907]:  Nathan  Hale, 
186;  The  Blue  and  the  Gray,  563. 

Flash,  Henry  Lynden  [1835-  ]:  Zollicoffer,  454; 
Stonewall  Jackson,  486;  The  Gallant  Fifty-One, 
606. 

Foster,  Jeanne  Robert:  The  "William  P.  Frye,"  662. 

Franklin,  Benjamin  [1706-1790]:  The  Downfall  of 
Piracy,  48;  The  Mother  Country,  142. 

Freneau,  Philip  [1752-1832]:  Columbus  to  Ferdi 
nand,  9;  Columbus  in  Chains,  17;  Emancipa 
tion  from  British  Dependence,  176;  On  the  Death 
of  Captain  Nicholas  Biddle,  220;  The  Bonhomme 
Richard  and  Serapis,  225;  Barney's  Invitation, 
226;  Song  on  Captain  Barney's  Victory,  227; 
Sir  Henry  Clinton's  Invitation  to  the  Refugees, 
229;  The  Royal  Adventurer,  241;  Eutaw  Springs, 
255;  An  Ancient  Prophecy,  258;  On  the  Depar 
ture  of  the  British  from  Charleston,  260;  Cn  the 
British  King's  Speech,  261;  Occasioned  by  Gen 
eral  Washington's  Arrival  in  Philadelphia,  on  his 
Way  to  his  Residence  in  Virginia,  263;  On  the 
Death  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  275;  On  the  Capture 
of  the  Guerriere,  290;  The  Battle  of  Stonington, 
309;  On  the  British  Invasion,  312;  The  Battle  of 
Lake  Champlain,  312;  On  the  Emigration  to 
America,  331. 

Frost,  Thomas:  The  Death  of  Colman,  50;  The 
Guns  in  the  Grass,  361. 

Gallagher,  William  Davis  [1808-1894]:  The  Moth 
ers  of  the  West,  330. 

Garland,  Hamlin  [1860-  ]:  Logan  at  Peach 
Tree  Creek,  510. 

Gibbons,  James  Sloan  [1810-1892]:  Three  Hun 
dred  Thousand  More,  440. 

Gilder,  Joseph  B.  [1858-  ]:  The  Parting  of  the 
Ways,  609. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson  [1844-1909]:  At  the  Presi 
dent's  Grave,  590;  Charleston,  594;  "The  White 
City,"  602;  The  Comfort  of  the  Trees,  650. 

Gilmore,  Patrick  Sarsfield  [1829-1892]:  When 
Johnny  comes  marching  Home,  549. 

Glaenzer,  Richard  Butler  [  -  ]:  A  Ballad  of 
Redhead's  Day,  672. 

Gordon,  James  Lindsay:  Wheeler  at  Santiago,  631. 

Greenwood,  Grace.  See  Lippincott,  Mrs.  Sara  Jane. 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen  [1861-1920]:  John  Brown, 
397. 

Guiterman,  Arthur:  Quivfra,  31;  Haarlem  Heights, 
183;  The  Storming  of  Stony  Point,  230;  The  Call 
to  the  Colors,  627;  The  Rush  of  the  Oregon,  637. 

Hale,  Arthur:  The  Yankee  Privateer,  221;  Manila 
Bay,  618. 

Hale,  Edward  Everett  [1822-1909]:  Columbus,  18; 
From  Potomac  to  Merrimac,  49;  Adrian  Block's 
Song,  51;  Anne  Hutchinson's  Exile,  73;  The 
Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Bloody  Brook,  82; 
New  England's  Chevy  Chase,  148;  The  Ballad  of 
Bunker  Hill,  162;  The  Marching  Song  of  Stark's 
Men,  193;  Put  it  Through,  509. 

Hall,  Charles  Sprague:  Glory  Hallelujah,  397. 

Hall,  Sharlot  M.:  Arizona,  655. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene  [1790-1867]:  On  the  Death 
of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  348. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


701 


Halpine,  Charles  Graham  [1820-1868]:  Baron 
Renfrew's  Ball,  382;  Lecompton's  Black  Bri 
gade,  398;  The  Song  of  Sherman's  Army,  513; 
"Mr.  Johnson's  Policy  of  Reconstruction,"  559. 

Harte,  Francis  Bret  [1839-1902]:  Caldwell  of 
Springfield,  232;  The  Reveille,  442;  John  Burns 
of  Gettysburg,  493;  A  Second  Review  of  the 
Grand  Army,  548;  An  Arctic  Vision,  566;  Chi 
cago,  569. 

Hay,  John  [1838-1905]:  Miles  Keogh's  Horse,  584. 

Hayes,  Ednah  Proctor  Clarke  [187  -  ]:  A  Salem 
Witch,  91. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton  [1830-1886]:  Macdonald's 
Raid,  248;  Beyond  the  Potomac,  443;  Butler's 
Proclamation,  476;  Vicksburg,  499;  The  Battle 
of  Charleston  Harbor,  507;  Charleston,  515; 
South  Carolina  to  the  States  of  the  North,  561; 
The  Stricken  South  to  the  North,  564;  York- 
town  Centennial  Lyric,  592. 

Hayne,  William  Hamilton  [1856-  ]:  The  Charge 
at  Santiago,  630. 

Hazard,  Caroline  [1856-  ]:  The  Great  Swamp 
Fight,'  83. 

Helmer,  Charles  D.:  The  Battle  of  Oriskany,  198. 

Hemans,  Mrs.  Felicia  Dorothea  [1793-1835]:  Land 
ing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  57. 

Henderson,  Daniel  [1880-  ]:  The  Road  to 
France,  667. 

Henley,  William  Ernest  [1849-1903]:  Romance, 
516. 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno  [1806-1884]:  Rio  Bravo, 
362;  Monterey,  363. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  [1809-1894]:  A  Ballad  of 
the  Boston  Tea-Party,  136;  Lexington,  147; 
Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle,  163; 
Old  Ironsides,  351;  Daniel  Webster,  377;  Bro 
ther  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline,  400; 
Sherman's  in  Savannah,  514;  After  the  Fire, 
571;  Welcome  to  the  Nations,  574;  On  the  Death 
of  President  Garfield,  590;  Additional  Verses  to 
Hail  Columbia,  596. 

Honey  wood,  Saint  John  [1763-1798]:  A  Radical 
Song  of  1786,  269. 

Hope,  James  Barren  [1827-1887]:  John  Smith's 
Approach  to  Jamestown,  38. 

Hopkinson,  Francis  [1737-1791]:  On  the  Late  Suc 
cessful  Expedition  against  Louisbourg,  118; 
The  Daughter's  Rebellion,  140;  American  In 
dependence,  178;  British  Valor  displayed;  or, 
The  Battle  of  the  Kegs,  208;  The  New  Roof, 
270. 

Hopkinson,  Joseph  [1770-1842]:  Hail  Columbia, 
277. 

Hosmer,  William  Henry  Cuyler  [1814-1877]:  Song 
of  Texas,  358. 

Houghton,  George  [1850-1891]:  The  Legend  of 
Walbach  Tower,  306. 

Houghton,  Lord.  -See  Milnes,  Richard  Monckton. 

Hovey,  Richard  [1864-1900]:  The  Word  of  the 
Lord  from  Havana,  610;  The  Battle  of  Manila, 
619. 

Howe,  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  [1819-1910]:  Our  Coun- 
tryi  71;  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  384; 
Robert  E.  Lee,  524;  Pardon,  539;  Parricide, 
542;  J.  A.  G.,  589. 

Howells,  William  Dean  [1837-1920]:  The  Battle  in 
the  Clouds,  506. 


Hughes,  Rupert  [1872-        ]:  The  Martyrs  of  the 

Maine,  612. 
Humphreys,   David   [1752-1818]:   On  Disbanding 

the  Army,  262. 
Hutton,  Joseph   [1787-1828]:   The  Tomb   of  the 

Brave,  339. 

Ingham,  John  Hall  [1860-  ]:  George  Washing 
ton,  275. 

Irving,  Minna  [1872-  ]:  Betsey's  Battle  Flag, 
191. 

Janvier,  Francis  de  Haes  [1817-1885]:  God  save 

Our  President,  403. 
Janvier,  Thomas  Allibone  [1849-1913]:  Santiago, 

633. 
Jenks,  Tudor  [1857-1922]:  The  Spirit  of  the  Maine, 

621. 
Jewett,  John  H.  [1843-        ]:  Those  Rebel  Flags, 

654. 

Johnson,  Hilda:  Ballade  of  Expansion,  642. 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood  [1853-         ]:  Dewey 

at  Manila,  615;  To  the  Returning  Brave,  675. 
Jones,  Amanda  Theodosia  [1835-        ]:  Panama, 

652. 
Jones,  Charles  L.  S.:  The  Hero  of  Bridgewater, 

309;  Fort  Bowyer,  323. 

Ketchum,  Mrs.  Annie  Chambers  [1824-1904]:  The 

Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  413. 
Key,  Francis  Scott  [1780-1843]:  The  Star-Spangled 

Banner,  317. 
Kilmer,  Joyce  [1886- 1918]  :The  White  Ships  and  the 

Red,  663;  Rouge  Bouquet,  670. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage  [1775-1864]:  On  the  Death 
of  M.  d'Ossoli  and  his  Wife,  Margaret  Fuller,  376. 

Lanier,  Sidney  [1842-1881]:  The  Story  of  Vinland, 
3;  The  Triumph,  12;  Lexington,  146;  Land  of 
the  Wilful  Gospel,  265;  The  Dying  Words  of 
Stonewall  Jackson,  486;  The  Centennial  Medi 
tation  of  Columbia,  573. 

Larcom,  Lucy  [1824-1893]:  Mistress  Hale  of  Bev 
erly,  97;  The  Nineteenth  of  April,  414;  The 
Sinking  of  the  Merrimack,  468. 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons  [1851-1898]:  Marthy  Vir 
ginia's  Hand,  445;  Keenan's  Charge,  484. 

Learned,  Walter  [1847-1915]:  The  Last  Reserva 
tion,  586. 

Lee,  Arthur  [1740-1792]:  A  Prophecy,  125. 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard  [1866-  ]:  After  the  War, 
678. 

Leland,  Charles  Godfrey  [1824-1903]:  Out  and 
Fight,  409. 

Lewis,  Alonzo  [1794-1861]:  Death  Song,  70. 

Lieber,  Francis  [1800-1872]:  The  Ship  Canal  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  374. 

Lighthall,  William  Douw  Schuyler  [1857-  ]: 
The  Battle  of  La  Prairie,  101. 

Lindsay,  Vachel  [1879-  ]:  Abraham  Lincoln 
Walks  at  Midnight,  661. 

Lippincott,  Mrs.  Sara  Jane  [1823-1904]:  Illumina 
tion  for  Victories  in  Mexico,  371. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth  [1807-1882]:  The 
Skeleton  in  Armor,  6;  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  34; 
The  War-Token,  61;  The  Expedition  to  Wessa- 
gusset,  63;  Prologue  from  "John  Endicott,"  71; 


702 


INDEX  OF   AUTHORS 


The  Proclamation,  76;  Prologue  from  '"Giles 
Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,"  88;  The  Trial,  92; 
The  Battle  of  Lovell's  Pond,  109;  A  Ballad  of  the 
French  Fleet,  110,  The  Embarkation,  115;  Paul 
Revere's  Ride,  144;  Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns 
of  Bethlehem,  245;  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
351;  Victor  Gaibraith,  364;  The  Cumberland, 
464;  The  Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,  583; 
President  Garfield,  591;  The  Republic,  660. 

Lord,  William  Wilberforce  [1819-1907]:  On  the 
Defeat  of  Henry  Clay,  376. 

Loveman,  Robert  [1864-  ]:  Hobson  and  his 
Men,  627. 

Lover,  Samuel  [1797-1868]:  The  War  Ship  of 
Peace,  375. 

Lowell,  James  Russell  [1819-1891]:  Flawless  his 
Heart,  128;  The  New-Come  Chief,  168;  Mr. 
Hosea  Biglow  speaks,  360;  What  Mr.  Robinson 
thinks,  369;  The  Debate  in  the  Sennit,  386;  Jon 
athan  to  John,  430;  The  Washers  of  the  Shroud, 
450;  Ode  recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemora 
tion,  550. 

Lucas,  Daniel  Bedinger  [1836-  ]:  In  the  Land 
where  we  were  Dreaming,  546. 

Lummis,  Charles  Fletcher  [1859-  ]:  John 
Charles  Fremont,  345. 

Lushington,  Franklin:  No  More  Words,  410. 

Lytle,  William  Haines  [1826-1863]:  The  Siege  of 
Chapultepec,  371;  The  Volunteers,  374. 

McGaffey,  Ernest  [1861-        ]:  Little  Big  Horn, 

581;  S.ronimo,  586. 
McMaster,  Guy  Humphreys  [1829-1887]:  Carmen 

Belli  :osum,  206. 

Madison,   Mrs.  Dorothy  Payne  [1772-1849]:  La 
fayette,  349. 
Mansfield,  Richard  [1857-1907]:  The  Eagle's  Song, 

558. 

Manville,  Marion.  See  Pope,  Mrs. 
Markham,  Edwin  [1852-         ]:  Lincoln,  399. 
Marvell,  Andrew  [1620-1678]:  Bermudas,  39. 
Meehan,  John  James:  The  Race  of  the  Oregon, 

624. 
Melville,  Herman  [1819-1891]:  Malvern  Hill,  43&; 

The  Victor  of  Antietam,  445;  The  Cumberland, 

466;  Running  the  Batteries,  498;  A  Dirge  for 

McPherson,  511;  Sheridan  at  Cedar  Creek,  521; 

The  Fall  of  Richmond,  523;  The  Surrender  at 

Appomattox,  524;  At  the  Cannon's  Mouth,  537. 
Meredith,  William  Tuckey  [1839-         ]:  Farragut, 

528. 
Mifflin,  Lloyd  [1846-        ]:  The  Battle-Field,  492; 

Half-Mast,  611. 
Miller,  Cincinnatus  Heine  (Joaquin)  [1841-1913]: 

Columbus,  14;  The  Defence  of  the  Alamo,  357; 

Alaska,    567;    Rejoice,    587;   Cuba   Libre,    609; 

San  Francisco,  657;  Resurge  San  Francisco,  658. 
Miller,  J.  Corson  [1883-        ]:  Epicedium,  673. 
Milnes,     Richard    Monckton,     Baron    Houghton 

[1809-1885]:  Columbus  and  the  Mayflower,  18. 
Milns,  William:  The  Federal  Constitution,  272. 
Mitchell,   Silas  Weir  [1829-1914]:  Herndon,   380; 

How  the  Cumberland  went  down,  466;  Kear- 

sarge,  526;  Lincoln,  537;  The  Song  of  the  Flags, 

055. 
Montgomery,  James  [1771-18541:  The  Inspiration, 

8;  The  Lust  of  Gold,  24. 


Moody,  William  Vaughn  [1869-1910]:  On  a  Soldier 
fallen  in  the  Philippines,  643;  An  Ode  in  Time 
of  Hesitation,  646. 

More,  Helen  F.:  What's  in  a  Name,  146. 

Morris,  George  Pope  [1802-1864]:  Pocahontas,  39. 

Morton,  David  [1886-  ]:  The  Dead,  674;  Be 
yond  Wars,  678. 

Morton,  Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  [1759-1846]:  To 
Aaron  Burr,  338. 

Newbolt,  Henry  John  [1862-        ]:  Craven,  527. 

O'Brien,  Fitz-James  [1828-1862]:  Kane,  379. 

O'Hara,  Theodore  [1820-1867]:  The  Bivouac  of  the 
Dead,  368. 

O'Reilly,  John  Boyle  [1844-1890]:  Crispus  At- 
tucks,  132;  At  Fredericksburg,  447;  Chicago, 
569;  Boston,  570;  The  Ride  of  Collins  Graves, 
571;  Midnight  —  September  19,  1881,  589;  May 
flower,  594. 

Osborn,  Laughton  [1809-1878]:  The  Death  of  Gen 
eral  Pike,  299. 

Osgood,  Kate  Putnam  [1841-  ]:  Driving  Home 
the  Cows,  550. 

Page,  Thomas  Nelson -[1853-1 922]:  The  Dragon  of 
the  Seas,  621. 

Paine,  Robert  Treat  [1773-1811]:  Adams  and  Lib 
erty,  276. 

Paine,  Thomas  [1737-1809]:  Liberty  Tree,  141. 

Palmer,  John  Williamson  [1825-1906]:  Ned  Brad- 
dock,  114;  The  Maryland  Battalion,  183;  Reid 
at  Fayal,  319;  Theodosia  Burr,  346;  The  Fight 
at  San  Jacinto,  357;  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way, 
483. 

Parrish,  Randall  [1858-  ]:  Your  Lad,  and  My 
Lad,  668. 

Parsons,  Thomas  William  [1819-1892]:  Dirge,  419. 

Paul,  Dorothy:  The  Captive  Ships  at  Manila,  666. 

Paulding,  James  Kirke  [1779-1860]:  Ode  to  James 
town,  46. 

Percival,  James  Gates  [1795-1856]:  Apostrophe  to 
the  Island  of  Cuba,  606. 

Perry,  Nora  [1832-1896]:  Balboa,  23;  Running  the 
Blockade,  215. 

Peterson,  Henry  [1818-1891]:  The  Death  of  Lyon, 
453. 

Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart.  See  Ward,  Elizabeth 
Stuart  Phelps. 

Piatt,  John  James  [1835-1914]:  The  Dear  Presi 
dent,  539. 

Pierpont,  James:  "We  Conquer  or  Die,"  412. 

Pierpont,  John  [1785-1866]:  The  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
66;  Warren's  Address,  161;  The  Fourth  of  July, 
179;  On  Laying  the  Corner-Stone  of  the  Bunker 
Hill  Monument,  348:  The  Kidnapping  of  Sims, 
388. 

Pike,  Albert  [1809-1891]:  Buena  Vista,  364;  Dixie 
411. 

Plimpton,  Floras  B.  [1830-  ]:  Fort  Duquesne 
119. 

Pope,  Mrs.  Marion  Manville  [1859-  ]:  The  Sur 
render  of  New  Orleans,  475;  Lee's  Parole,  524. 

Porter,  Ina  M. :  Mumford,  476. 

Preston,  Mrs.  Margaret  Junkin  [1820-1897]:  The 
Mystery  of  Cro-a-tan,  36;  The  Last  Meeting  of 
Pocahontas  and  the  Great  Captain,  43;  The  First 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish,  58;  The  First 
Thanksgiving  Day,  60;  Dirge  for  Ashby,  439; 
Under  the  Shade  of  the  Trees,  486 ;  Virginia  Capta , 
523,  Acceptation,  547. 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean  [1838-1923]:  Columbus  Dy 
ing,  18;  The  Captive's  Hymn,  123;  The  Lost 
War  Sloop,  311;  Sa-ca-ga-we-a,  340;  John  Brown, 
397;  The  Brooklyn  Bridge,  593. 

Pulci,  Luigi  [1431-1487]:  Prophecy,  7. 

Randall,  James  Ryder  [1839-1908]:  My  Maryland, 

415;  John  Pelham,  482. 

Rankin,  Jeremiah  Eames  [1828-1904]:  The  Word 
of  God  to  Leyden  came,  56;  Fairest  of  Free 
dom's  Daughters,  594. 

Rawnsley,  Hardwick  Drummond  [1850-  ]:  A 
Ballad  of  the  Conemaugh  Flood,  600. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan  [1822-1872]:  The  Rising, 
154;  Valley  Forge,  207;  Blennerhassett's  Island, 
335;  The  Attack,  463;  Sheridan's  Ride,  521;  The 
Eagle  and  Vulture,  525. 

Realf,  Richard  [1834-1878]:  The  Defence  of  Law 
rence,  390. 

Revere,  Paul  [1735-1818]:  Unhappy  Boston,  134. 

Rice,  Harvey  [1800-1891]:  Cuba,  608. 

Rice,  Wallace  de  Groot  Cecil  [1859-  ]:  The 
First  American  Sailors,  34;  The  Sudbury  Fight, 
85;  The  Minute-Men  of  Northboro',  152;  First- 
fruits  in  1812,  291;  Defeat  and  Victory,  302; 
The  Armstrong  at  Fayal,  321;  Jackson  at  New 
Orleans,  325;  Blood  is  Thicker  than  Water,  380; 
Dewey  and  his  Men,  617;  Battle  Song  of  the 
Oregon,  624;  Wheeler's  Brigade  at  Santiago, 
629;  Spain's  Last  Armada,  632;  The  Destroyer 
of  Destroyers,  635;  The  Brooklyn  at  Santiago, 
636. 

Rich,  Hiram  [1832-1905]:  Morgan  Stanwood,  151. 

Rich,  Richard  [fl.  1610]:  Newes  from  Virginia,  40. 

Richards,  Mrs.  Laura  Elizabeth  [1850-  J: 
Molly  Pitcher,  213.  > 

Risley,  Richard  Voorhees  [1874-1904]:  Dewey  in 
Manila  Bay,  620. 

Roberts,  Charles  George  Douglas  [1860-  ]: 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  593;  In  Apia  Bay,  597;  A  Bal 
lad  of  Manila  Bay,  618. 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington  [1869-  ]:  The 
Klondike,  604. 

Roche,  James  Jeffrey  [1847-1908]:  Washington, 
274;  Reuben  James,  282;  Jack  Creamer,  295; 
The  Fight  of  the  Armstrong  Privateer,  319;  The 
Constitution's  Last  Fight,  327;  The  Men  of  the 
Alamo,  355;  The  Flag,  378;  Gettysburg,  492; 
"Albemarle"  Cushing,  535;  The  Kearsarge,  602; 
The  Gospel  of  Peace,  607;  Panama,  651. 

Rodman,  Thomas  P.:  The  Battle  of  Bennington, 
195. 

Rog6,  Mrs.  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates  [1838-  ]: 
Andre,  239. 

Rooney,  John  Jerome  [1866-  ]:  The  Men  be 
hind  the  Guns,  637;  Mcllrath  of  Malate,  639. 

Root,  George  Frederick  [1820-1895]:  The  Battle- 
Cry  of  Freedom,  500. 

Runyon,  Alfred  Damon:  A  Song  of  Panama,  652. 

Russell,  Charles  Edward  [1860-  ]:  The  Fleet  at 
Santiago,  634. 

Ryan,  Abram  Joseph  [1839-1888]:  The  Conquered 
Banner,  547. 


Safford,  William  Harrison  [1821-1903]:    The  Bat 
tle  of  Muskingum,  337. 

St.  John,  Peter:  The  Descent  on  Middlesex,  242. 
Sargent,  Epes  [1813-1880J:   The  Death  of  Warren, 

166. 
Sawyer,  Charles  Carroll   [1833-         ]:   When  this 

Cruel  War  is  Over,  677. 
Saxe.  John  Godfrey  [1816-1887]:  How  Cyrus  laid 

the  Cable,  565. 
Schiller,  Johann  Christoph  Friedrich  von  [1759- 

1805]:  Steer,  Bold  Mariner,  On,  12. 
Scollard,  Clinton  [1860-  ]:  The  First  Thanks 
giving,  68;  King  Philip's  Last  Stand,  88;  The 
Eve  of  Bunker  Hill,  161;  Montgomery  at  Quebec, 
171;  The  Boasting  of  Sir  Peter  Parker,  181; 
Saint  Leper,  199;  Wayne  at  Stony  Point,  230; 
The  Battle  of  Plattsburg  Bay,  313;  The  Valor  of 
Ben  Milam,  354;  The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment, 
462;  Riding  with  Kilpatrick,  488;  The  Men  of 
the  Maine,  609;  The  Men  of  the  Merrimac,  626; 
Deeds  of  Valor  at  Santiago,  630;  Pri%-ate  Blair 
of  the  Regulars,  631;  The  Ballad  of  Pace  Town, 
644;  The  Deed  of  Lieutenant  Miles,  644;  Ad 
Patriam,  660;  The  First  Three,  669;  The  Unre- 
turaing,  674. 
Seeger,  Alan  [1888-1916]:  Ode  in  Memory  of  the 

American  Volunteers  fallen  for  France,  664. 
Sewall,  Jonathan  Mitchell  [1748-1808]:  War  and 

Washington,  170;  On  Independence,   179. 
Shadwell,  Bertrand:  Cervera,  638;  Aguinaldo,  645. 
Shanly,  Charles  Dawso-  [1811-1875]:    Civil  War, 

432. 

Sherwood,  Mrs.  Katherine  Margaret  Brownlee 
[1841-  ]:  Molly  Pitcher,  213;  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston,  456;  Thomas  at  Chickamauga,  502; 
Ulric  Dahlgren,  517. 

Siegrist,  Mary:  The  League  of  Nations,  677. 
Sigourney,  Mrs.  Lydia  Huntley  [1791-1865]:  Co 
lumbus,  9;  California,  346;  Indian  Names,  587. 
Sill,    Edward    Rowland    [1841-1887]:    The    Dead 

President,  538. 

Simmons,  James  Wright:  Sumter's  Band,  250. 
Simms,  William  Gilmore  [1806-1870]:  The  Swamp 

Fox,  247;  The  Battle  of  Eutaw,  254. 
Smith,  Dexter:  Our  National  Banner,  578. 
Smith,    Lewis    Worthington    [1866-        ]:    News 

from  Yorktown,  257. 
Smith,  Marion  Couthouy:  The  Star,  674;  King  of 

the  Belgians,  676 

Smith,  Samuel  Francis  [1808-1895]:  America,  ii. 
Southey,  Robert  [1774-1843]:  The  Bower  of  Peace, 

318. 
Spofford,  Mrs.  Harriet  Prescott  [1835-1921]:  How 

we  became  a  Nation,  138;  Can't,  519. 
Stansbury,  Joseph  [1750-1809]:  A  New  Song,  240; 

The  Lords  of  the  Main,  241. 
Stansbury,  Mary  Anna  Phinney:  The  Surprise  at 

Ticonderoga,  157. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence  [1833-1908]:  Peter 
Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call,  54;  Salem,  89; 
Aaron  Burr's  Wooing,  231;  How  Old  Brown 
took  Harper's  Ferry,  393;  Sumter,  404;  Wanted 
—  A  Man,  435;  Kearny  at  Seven  Pines,  437; 
Treason's  Last  Device,  480;  Gettysburg,  489; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  538;  Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for 
Gold,  567;  Custer,  583;  Liberty  Enlightening  the 
World,  595;  Cuba,  607;  Hymn  of  the  West,  653. 


704 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Steendam,  Jacob   [c  1640-c  1690]:  The  Praise  of 

New  Netherland.  52;  The  Complaint  of  New 

Amsterdam,  53. 
Stevenson,    Burton    Egbert    [1872-        J.    Henry 

Hudson's  Quest,  50;  The  Peace  Message,  60. 
Stevenson,  James:  The  Gallant  Fighting"  Joe," 

436. 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry  [1825-1903]:  Men  of  the 

North  and  West,  409;  Colonel  Ellsworth.  416; 

The  Little  Drummer,  451;  Twilight  on  Sumter, 

509;  Abraham  Lincoln,  540. 
Street,  Alfred  Billings  [1811-1882]:  The    Settler, 

329. 
Swett,  Herbert  B.:  The  Gathering,  629. 

Taylor,  Bayard  [1825-1878]:  Through  Baltimore, 
414;  Lincoln  at  Gettysburg,  497;  The  National 
Ode,  575. 

Taylor,  Joseph  Russell  [1868-  ]:  Breath  on  the 
Oat,  641. 

Taj  lor,  Tom  [1817-1880]:  Abraham  Lincoln,  543. 

Tennyson,  Alfred  [1809-1892]:  England  and  Am 
erica  in  1782,  262. 

Terry,  Uriah:  The  Wyoming  Massacre,  217. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace  [1811-1863]: 
Pocahontas,  38. 

Thomas,  Edith  Matilda  [1854-  ]:  Ponce  de 
Leon,  22;  A  Christopher  of  the  Shenandoah, 
520;  To  Spain  —  A  Last  Word,  612. 

Thompson,  James  Maurice  [1844-1901]:  The  Bal 
lad  of  Chickamauga,  501. 

Thompson,  John  Randolph  [1823-1873]:  On  to 
Richmond,  426;  The  Burial  of  Latane,  437;  Lee 
to  the  Rear,  518;  Obsequies  of  Stuart,  519. 

Thompson,  Will  Henry  [1848-  ]:  The  High 
Tide  at  Gettysburg,  491. 

Ticknor,  Francis  Orrery  [1822-1874]:  The  Virgin 
ians  of  the  Valley,  417;  A  Battle  Ballad,  424; 
"Our  Left,"  441;  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  457; 
Little  Giffen,  460. 

Tilden,  Stephen  [1686-1766]:  The  British  Lyon 
roused,  111;  Braddoek's  Fate,  112. 

Tilton,  Theodore  [1835-1907]:  The  Great  Bell  Ro 
land,  408. 

Timrod,  Henry  [1829-1867]:  A  Cry  to  Arms,  411; 
Charleston,  507;  Carolina,  515. 

Titherington,  Richard  Handfield  [1861-  ]: 
Faithful  unto  Death,  650. 

Tompson,  Benjamin  [1753-1814]:  On  a  Fortifica 
tion  at  Boston  begun  by  Women,  85. 

Trowbridpe,  John  Townscnd  [1827-1916]:  Colum 
bus  at  the  Convent,  10. 

Tyke,  Edward  Sydney:  Outward  Bound,  650. 

Tyler,  Royall  [1757-1826]:  Independence  Day,  179. 

Upham,  Thomas  Cogswell  [1799-1872]:  Song  of 
the  Pilgrims,  57. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry  [1852-        ]:  Mare  Liberum  664. 

Venable,  William  Henry  [1836-1918]:  John  Filson, 
331;  Johnny  Appleseed,  334;  The  Founders  of 
Ohio,  335;  El  Emplaeado,  613;  Battle  Cry,  614; 
National  Song,  659. 

Verplanck,  Guliaa  Croauaelia  [1786-1870]:  Pro 
phecy,  144. 


Walker,  E.  M.:  To  America,  on  Her  First  Sons 
Fallen  in  the  Great  War,  670. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  [1844-1911]: 
A  Message,  440;  Conemaugh,  601. 

Warfield,  Mrs.  Catherine  Anne  [1816-1877]:  Ma- 
nassas,  423;  Beauregard,  457. 

Warren,  Joseph  [1741-1775]:  Free  America,  140. 

Warren,  Mrs.  Mercy  [1728-1814]:  Massachusetts 
—  Song  of  Liberty,  143. 

Wattles,  Willard  [  -  ]:  The  Family  of  Na 
tions,  677. 

Weare,  Mesech  [1713-1786]:  The  Blasted  Herb, 
139. 

Webster,  Mrs.  M.  M.:  The  Marriage  of  Pocahon 
tas,  43. 

Wharton,  William  H.:  Ben  Milam,  355. 

White,  Richsrd  Edward  [1843-  ]:  The  Dis 
covery  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  343. 

Whiting,  Seymour  W. :  Alamance.  135. 

Whitman,  Walt  [1819-1892]:  Ethiopia  Saluting 
the  Colors,  514;  O  Captain!  My  Captain,  537. 

Whitney,  Mrs.  Adeline  Dutton  Train  [1824-1903]: 
Peace.  547. 

Whittaker,  Frederick  [1838-  ]:  Custer's  Last 
Charge,  582. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf  [1807-1892]:  The  Norse 
men,  4;  Norembega,  32;  John  Underbill,  74; 
Cassandra  Southwick,  77;  The  King's  Missive, 
80;  St.  John,  99;  Pentucket,  105;  Lexington,  153; 
The  Vow  of  Washington;  274;  Skipper  Ireson's 
Ride,  283;  Texas,  358;  The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista, 
366;  The  Ciisis,  372;  To  William  Lloyd  Garrison, 
385;  Clerical  Oppressors,  385;  Ichabod,  388; 
The  Kansas  Emigrants,  389;  Burial  of  Barber, 
389;  Le  Marais  du  Cygne,  392;  Brown  of  Ossa- 
watomie,  396;  Barbara  Frietchie,  444;  The  Battle 
Autumn  of  1862, 460;  At  Port  Royal,  461 ;  To  John 
C.  Fremont,  477;  Astrtea  at  the  Capitol,  478;  The 
Proclamation,  480;  Laus  Deo,  481 ;  To  the  Thirty- 
Ninth  Congress,  559;  The  Cable  Hymn,  565; 
Chicago,  568;  Centennial  Hymn,  573;  On  the  Big 
Horn,  585;  The  Bartholdi  Statue,  595. 

Williams,  Roger  [16047-1683]:  God  makes  a  Path, 
72. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker  [1806-1867]:  Andre's  Re 
quest  to  Washington,  238;  The  Death  of  Harri 
son,  353. 

Willson,  [Byron]  Forceythe  [1837-1867]:  Boy  Brit- 
tan,  455. 

Wilson,  Robert  Burns  [1850-  ]:  Battle  Song, 
613;  "Cut  the  Cables,"  622. 

Wolfe,  James  [1726-1759]:  How  stands  the  Glass 
around,  121. 

Wood,  Alfred  D. :  The  Fight  at  Dajo,  645. 

Woodberry,  George  Edward  [1855-  ]:  Our  First 
Century,  572;  Essex  Regiment  March,  628;  The 
Islands  of  the  Sea,  641;  O  Land  Beloved,  660; 
Sonnets  written  in  the  Fall  of  1914,  661. 

Woolson,  Constance  Fenimore  [1840-1894]:  Ken 
tucky  Belle,  494. 

Wordsworth,  William  [1770-1850]:  The  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  66. 

Work,  Henry  Clay  [1832-1884]:  Marching  through 
Georgia,  513;  The  Year  of  Jubilee,  522. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  blush  as  of  roses,  392. 

A  boy  drove  into  the  city,  his  wagon  loaded  down, 

209. 
A  cheer  and  salute  for  the  Admiral,  and  here's  to 

the  Captain  bold,  637. 

A  cliff-locked  port  and  a  bluff  sea  wall,  319. 
A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field,  <91. 
A  cycle  was  closed  and  rounded,  196. 
A  flash  of  light  across  the  night,  517. 
A  fleet  with  flags  arrayed,  110. 
A  gallant  foeman  in  the  fight,  524. 
A  grand  attempt  some  Amazonian  Dames,  86. 
A  granite  cliff  on  either  shore,  593. 
A  handful  came  to  Seicheprey,  672. 
A  hundred  thousand  Northmen,  419. 
A  midnight  cry  appalls  the  gloom,  334. 
A  moonless  night  —  a  friendly  one,  498. 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  513. 
A  score  of  years  had  come  and  gone,  74. 
A  song  unto  Liberty's  brave  Buccaneer,  222. 
A  story  of  Ponce  de  Leon,  21. 
A  summer  Sunday  morning,  424. 
A  transient  city,  marvellously  fair,  649. 
A  voice  went  over  the  waters,  608. 
A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew,  327. 
Abraham  Lincoln,  the  Dear  President,  539. 
Across   the    Stony    Mountains,    o'er   the   desert's 

drouth  and  sand,  372. 

After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake,  497. 
After  the  war  —  I  hear  men  ask  —  what  then,  678. 
Again  Columbia's  stripes,  unfurl  'd,  302. 
Again  the  summer-fevered  skies,  503. 
Ah,  you  mistake  me,  comrades,  to  think  that  my 

heart  is  steel,  200. 
All  alone  on  the  hillside,  585. 
All  day  long  the  guns  at  the  forts,  475. 
All  day  the  great  guns  barked  and  roared,  213. 
All  hail!  Unfurl  the  Stripes  and  Stars,  403. 
All  night  upon  the  guarded  hill,  390. 
"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say,  433. 
All  summer  long  the  people  knelt,  590. 
Aloft  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag,  379. 
Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where,  450. 
America!  dear  brother  land,  614. 
America,  my  own,  659. 
America!  thou  fractious  nation,  138. 
An  American  frigate  from  Baltimore  came,  224. 
"An  empire  to  be  lost  or  won,"  342. 
An  eye  with  the  piercing  eagle's  fire,  560. 
"And  now,"  said  the  Governor,  gazing  abroad  on 

the  piled-up  store,  60. 
And  they  have  thrust  our  shattered  dead  away  in 

foreign  graves,  612. 

Are  these  the  honors  they  reserve  for  me,  17. 
"Are  you  ready,  O  Virginia,"  627. 
Arms  reversed  and  banners  craped,  511. 
Arnold!  the  name  as  heretofore,  238. 
As  billows  upon  billows  roll,  524. 


As  hang  two  mighty  thunderclouds,  361. 

As  men  who  fight  for  home  and  child  and  wife,  198. 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying,  137. 

As  to  kidnap  the  Congress  has  long  been  my  aim, 

205. 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp,  401. 
At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay,  464. 
At  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died,  255. 
At  length  'tis  done,  the  glorious  conflict's  done, 

118. 

At  the  door  of  his  hut  sat  Massasoit,  60. 
Avast,  honest  Jack!  now,  before  you  get  mellow, 

303. 

Awake!  arise,  ye  men  of  might,  363. 
Awake!  awake!  my  gallant  friends,  339. 
Awake,  ye  nations,  slumbering  supine,  661. 
Ay!  drop  the  treacherous  mask!  throw  by,  476. 
Ay,  it  is  fitting  on  this  holiday,  664. 
Ay,  let  it  rest!  And  give  us  peace,  607. 
Ay,  shout  and  rave,  thou  cruel  sea,  380. 
Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down,  351. 
Aye,  lads,  aye,  we  fought  'em,  618. 

Back  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field,  435. 

Be  then  your  counsels,  as  your  subject,  great,  270. 

Bear  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave,  389. 

Before  our  eyes  a  pageant  rolled,  578. 

Before  the  living  bronze  Saint-Gaudens  made,  646. 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores,  14. 

Behold  her  Seven  Hills  loom  white,  658. 

Behold,  we  have  gathered  together  our  battleships, 

near  and  afar,  620. 
Beneath  our  consecrated  elm,  168. 
Beneath  the  blistering  tropical  sun,  629. 
Beside  that  tent  and  under  guard,  586. 
Beside  the  lone  river,  581. 
Blackened  and  bleeding,  helpless,  panting,  prone, 

569. 
Bob  Anderson,  my  beau,  Bob,  when  we  were  first 

aquent,  403. 
Born,  nurtured,  wedded,  prized,  within  the  pale, 

349. 
Boy  Brittan  —  only  a  lad  —  a  fair-haired  boy  — 

sixteen,  455. 

Bright  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose,  574. 
Bring  cypress,  rosemary  and  rue,  658. 
Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we'll  sing  another 

song,  513. 

Britannia's  gallant  streamers,  296. 
Britons  grown  big  with  pride,  173. 
Brothers  in  blood!  They  who  this  wrong  began,  666. 
Bury  the  Dragon's  Teeth,  508. 
By  Cavit6  on  the  bay,  619. 
By   Chickamauga's   crooked    stream   the   martial 

trumpets  blew,  501. 
By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the  Bashaw  swore, 

281. 
By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river,  563. 


706 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood,  351. 

Csesar,  afloat  with  his  fortunes,  462. 

Call  Martha  Corey,  92. 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes,  507. 

Calm  martyr  of  a  noble  cause,  545. 

Calmly  beside  her  tropic  strand,  515. 

Came  the  morning  of  that  day,  404. 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state,  537. 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath,  385. 

Cheer  up,  my  young  men  all,  122. 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  An'  a  mountain-bluff,  652. 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done,  442. 

Cold,  cold  is  the  north  wind  and  rude  is  the  blast, 

109. 
Columbia,   appear!  —  To   thy   mountains  ascend, 

305. 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise,  180. 
Columbus  looked;  and  still  around  them  spread, 

273. 
Come,  all  ye  bold  Americans,  to  you  the  truth  I 

teli,  257. 

Come  all  ye  lads  who  know  no  fear,  226. 
Come  all  ye  sons  of  Brittany,  112. 
Come  all  ye  Yankee  sailors,  with  swords  and  pikes 

advance,  280. 

Come  all  you  brave  Americans,  237. 
Come  all  you  brave  soldiers,  both  valiant  and  free, 

179. 
Come,  all  you  sons  of  Liberty,  that  to  the  seas 

belong,  296. 

Come,  brothers!  rally  for  the  right,  413. 
Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  like  a  true  British  band, 

130. 

Come,  come  fill  up  your  glasses,  132. 
Come,  each  death-doing  dog  who  dares  venture  his 

neck,  121. 
Come,  fill  the  beaker,  while  we  chaunt  a  pean  of 

old  days,  119. 

Come,  Freemen  of  the  land,  509. 
Come,  gentlemen  Tories,  firm,  loyal,  and  true,  229. 
Come  let  us  rejoice,  245. 
Come,  listen  all  unto  my  song,  565. 
Come  listen  and  I'll  tell  you,  221. 
Come  listen,  good  neighbors  of  every  degree,  131. 
Come  listen  to  the  Story  of  brave  Lathrop  and  his 

Men,  82. 

Come  muster,  my  lads,  your  mechanical  tools,  270. 
Come,  rouse  up,  ye  bold-hearted  Whigs  of  Ken 
tucky,  353. 

Come  sheathe  your  swords!  my  gallant  boys,  239. 
Come,  stack  arms,  men!  Pile  on  the  rails,  483. 
Come  swallow  your  bumpers,  ye  Tories,  and  roar, 

143. 

Come  unto  me,  ye  heroes,  202. 
Come,  ye  lads,  who  wish  to  shine,  287. 
Comes  a  cry  from  Cuban  water,  609. 
Compassionate  eyes  had  our  brave  John  Brown, 

397. 

Concentred  here  th'  united  wisdom  shines,  269. 
Content  within  his  wigwam  warm,  73. 
Cornwallis  led  a  country  dance,  256. 
"Cut  the  cables!"  the  order  read,  622. 

Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even,  500. 
Dawn  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May,  518.  " 
Dawn  peered  through  the  pines  as  we  dashed  at 
the  ford,  488. 


Day  of  glory!  Welcome  day,  179. 

Daybreak  upon  the  hills,  547. 

Dead!  Is  it  possible?  He,  the  bold  rider,  582. 

Death,  why  so  cruel?  What!  no  other  way,  45. 

Delusions  of  the  days  that  once  have  been,  88. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  fight  at  Corinth,  458. 

Do  you  know  how  the  people  of  all  the  land,  49. 

Do  you  know  of  the  dreary  land,  468. 

Down  in  the  bleak  December  bay,  59. 

Down  Loudon  Lanes,  w  ith  sw  inging  reins,  482. 

Down  the  Little  Big  Horn,  580. 

Down  toward  the  deep-blue  water,  668. 

Dreary  and  brown  the  night  comes  down,  10. 

Ebbed  and  flowed  the  muddy  Pei-Ho  by  the  gulf 

of  Pechili,  380. 

Eight  volunteers!  on  an  errand  of  death,  626. 
Eighty  and  nine  with  their  captain,  438. 
El  Emplazado,  the  Summoned,  the  Doomed  One, 

613. 
Ere  five  score  years  have  run  their  tedious  rourds, 

125. 
Ere  Murfreesboro's  thunders  rent  the  air,  459. 

Fair  were  our  visions!  Oh,  they  were  as  grard, 
546. 

Fallen?  How  fallen?  States  and  empires  fall,  376. 

Fallen  with  autumn's  fallen  leaf,  590. 

Famine  once  we  had,  69. 

Far  spread,  below,  3. 

Farewell!  for  now  a  stormy  morn  and  dark,  C50. 

Farewell,  Peace!  another  crisis,  287. 

Farragut,  Farragut,  528. 

Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp,  159. 

First  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms,  454. 

Five  fearless  knights  of  the  first  renow-n,  34. 

Flawless  his  heart  and  temrered  to  the  core,  128. 

"Fly  to  the  mountain!  Fly,"  601. 

For  him  who  sought  1  is  country's  good,  280. 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards,  499. 

For  us,  the  dead,  though  young,  674. 

Foreboding  sudden  of  untoward  chanpe,  599. 

"Forgive  them,  for  thev  know  not  what  they  do," 
538. 

Four-and-eighty  years  are  o'er  me;  great-grand 
children  sit  before  me,  211. 

Four  gallant  ships  from  England  came,  3C9. 

Four  times  the  sun  has  risen  and  set;  and  now  on 
the  fifth  day,  115. 

Four  young  men,  of  a  Monday  morn,  155. 

France,  666. 

Francisco  Coronado  rode  forth  with  all  his  trcin,  31. 

Free  are  the  Muses,  and  where  freedom  is,  641. 

Freedom  called  them  —  up  they  rose,  606. 

Fresh  palms  for  the  Old  Dominion,  395. 

From  a  junto  that  labor  for  absolute  power,  176. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  stood,  441. 

From  dusk  till  dawn  the  livelong  night,  191. 

From  France,  desponding  and  betray'd,  312. 

From  Halifax  station  a  bully  there  came,  289. 

From  keel  to  fighting  top,  I  love,  618. 

From  Lewis,  Monsieur  GeYard  came,  214. 

From  out  my  deep,  wide-bosomed  West,  587. 

From  out  the  North-land  his  leaguer  he  led,  199. 

From  Santiago,  spurning  the  morrow,  635. 

From  the  commandant's  quarters  on  Westchester 
height,  231. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


707 


From  the  laurel's  fairest  bough,  307. 

From  the  Rio  Grande's  waters  to  the  icy  lakes  of 

Maine,  364. 

From  this  hundred-terraced  height,  573. 
From  Yorktown  on  the  fourth  of  May,  436. 
Furl  that  Banner,  for  't  is  weary,  547. 

Gallants  attend,  and  hear  a  friend,  208. 

Gaunt  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie,  569. 

Gentle  and  generous,  brave-hearted,  kind,  650. 

Gift  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past,  4. 

Giles  Corey  was  a  Wizard  strong,  96. 

"Give  me  but  two  brigades,"  said  Hooker,  frown 
ing  at  fortified  Lookout,  505. 

Give  me  white  paper,  18. 

Glistering  high  in  the  midnight  sky  the  starry 
rockets  soar,  617. 

Glorious  the  day  when  in  arms  at  Assunpink,  189. 

"Go,  bring  the  captive,  he  shall  die,"  26. 

God  is  shaping  the  great  future  of  the  Islands  of 
the  Sea,  641. 

God  makes  a  path,  provides  a  guide,  72. 

God  send  us  peace,  and  keep  red  strife  away,  447. 

God  wills  no  man  a  slave.  The  man  most  meek,  274. 

Golden  through  the  golden  morning,  676. 

Gone  down  in  the  flood,  and  gone  out  in  the  flame, 
468. 

Good  Junipero,  the  Padre,  343. 

Goody  Bull  and  her  daughter  together  fell  out,  130. 

Gray  swept  the  angry  waves,  466. 

Great  Sassacus  fled  from  the  eastern  shores,  70. 

Great  soul,  to  all  brave  souls  akin,  674. 

Greece  was;  Greece  is  no  more,  602. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee,  348. 

Grown  sick  of  war,  and  war's  alarms,  261. 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man,  369. 

Hail!  Columbia,  happy  land,  277. 

Hail,  Freedom!  thy  bright  crest,  596. 

Hail,  great  Apollo!  guide  my  feeble  pen,  111. 

Hail,  happy  Britain,  Freedom's  blest  retreat,  144. 

Hail  sons  of  generous  valor,  326. 

Hail  to  Hobson!  Hail  to  Hobson!  hail  to  all  the 

valiant  set,  626. 
Hail  to  thee,  gallant  foe,  638. 
Hard  aport!  Now  close  to  shore  sail,  51. 
Hark!  do  I  hear  again  the  roar,  18. 
Hark!    hark!    down   the   century's   long   reaching 

slope,  592. 

Hark!  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands,  442. 
Hark!    't  is    Freedom   that   calls,    come,   patriots, 

awake,  157. 

Hark!  't  is  the  voice  of  the  mountain,  254. 
"Has  the  Marquis  La  Fayette,"  240. 
Have  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell,  493. 
"He  chases  shadows,"  sneered  the  British  tars,  19. 
He  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  did  n't  lose  a 

man,  620. 
Hear  through  the  morning  drums  and  trumpets 

sounding,  325. 

Heard  ye  how  the  bold  McClellan,  434. 
Heard  ye  that  thrilling  word,  439. 
Hearken  the  stirring  story,  27. 
Here  comes  the  Marshal,  76. 
Here  halt  we  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent,  157. 
Here,  in  my  rude  log  cabin,  323. 
Here  the  oceans  twain  have  waited,  651. 


"Here  we  stan'  on  the  Constitution,  by  thunder," 
386. 

Here  's  the  spot.  Look  around  you.  Above  on  the 
height,  232. 

Highlands  of  Hudson!  ye  saw  them  pass,  230. 

His  bark,  7. 

His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung,  329. 

"His  policy,"  do  you  say,  559. 

His  soul  to  God!  on  a  battle-psalm,  457. 

His  triumphs  of  a  moment  done,  260. 

His  work  ie  done,  his  toil  is  o'er,  650. 

"Ho,  Rose!"  quoth  the  stout  Miles  Standish,  58. 

Ho,  woodsmen  of  the  mountain-side,  411. 

Hobson  went  towards  death  and  hell,  627. 

"Home,  home  —  where 's  my  baby's  home,"  73. 

Hooker  's  across!  Hooker  's  across,  483. 

How  glows  each  patriot  bosom  that  boasts  a  Yan 
kee  heart,  293. 

How  history  repeats  itself,  519. 

How  long,  O  sister,  how  long,  588. 

How  sad  the  note  of  that  funereal  drum,  347. 

How  spoke  the  King,  in  his  crucial  hour  victorious, 
676. 

How  stands  the  glass  around,  121. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town,  105. 

Huge  and  alert,  irascible  yet  strong,  649. 

Huzza  for  our  liberty,  boys,  286. 

Huzza,  my  Jo  Bunkers!  no  taxes  we'll  pay,  269. 

I  am  a  wandering,  bitter  shade,  146. 

I  gazed,  and  lo!  Afar  and  near,  454. 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade,  413. 

I  hear  again  the  tread  of  war  go  thundering  through 

the  land,  456. 

I  heard  the  bells  across  the  trees,  673. 
I  lay  in  my  tent  at  mid-day,  440. 
I  lift  these  hands  with  iron  fetters  banded,  561. 
I  never  have  got  the  bearings  quite,  378. 
I  often  have  been  told,  288. 

I  pause  not  now  to  speak  of  Raleigh's  dreams,  38. 
I  read  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review,  548. 
I  remember  it  well:  'twas  a  morn  dull  and  gray, 

248. 

I  saw  her  first  abreast  the  Boston  Light,  662. 
Iberian!  palter  no  more!  By  thine  hands,  612. 
Ice  built,  ice  bound,  and  ice  bounded,  567. 
I'd  weave  a  wreath  for  those  who  fought,  529. 
If  we  dreamed  that  we  loved  Her  aforetime,  't  was 

the  ghost  of  a  dream;  for  I  vow,  667. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  day,  420. 
Illustrious  monarch  of  Iberia's  soil,  9. 
I  'm  a  grandchild  of  the  gods,  53. 
In  a  chariot  of  light  from  the  regions  of  day,  141. 
In  a  stately  hall  at  Brentford,  when  the  English 

June  was  green,  43. 

In  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet,  670. 
In  battle-line  of  sombre  gray,  621. 
In  Cherbourg  Roads  the  pirate  lay,  525. 
In  Hampton  Roads,  the  airs  of  March  were  bland, 

463. 
In  Paco  town  and  in  Paco  tower,  644. 

n  revel  and  carousing,  346. 

n  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-five,  171. 

n  spite  of  Rice,  in  spite  of  Wheat,  140. 

n  that  desolate  land  and  lone,  583. 

n  that  soft  mid-land  where  the  breezes  bear,  177. 
In  the  gloomy  ocean  bed,  602. 


708 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 


In  the  stagnant  pride  of  an  outworn  race,  633. 

In  the  tides  of  the  warm  south  wind  it  lay,  25. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals,  206. 

Into  the  thick  of  the  fight  he  went,  pallid,  and  sick 
and  wan,  631. 

Into  the  town  of  Conemaugh,  599. 

Is  it  naught?  Is  it  naught,  607. 

Is  it  the  wind,  the  many-tongued,  the  weird,  496. 

Is  this  the  price  of  beauty!  Fairest,  thou,  594. 

Isle  of  a  summer  sea,  608. 

It  cannot  be  that  men  who  are  the  seed,  572. 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John,  430. 

It  fell  upon  us  like  a  crushing  woe,  416. 

It  is  done,  481. 

It  is  I,  America,  calling,  668. 

It  is  no  idle  fabulous  tale,  nor  is  it  fayned  newes, 
40. 

It  is  not  the  fear  of  death,  238. 

It  ia  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state,  661. 

It  was  a  noble  Roman,  403. 

It  was  Captain  Pierce  of  the  Lion  who  strode  the 
streets  of  London,  68. 

It  was  early  Sunday  morning,  in  the  year  of  sixty- 
four,  526. 

It  was  less  than  two  thousand  we  numbered,  511. 

It  was  on  the  seventeenth,  by  break  of  day,  167. 

It  was  Private  Blair,  of  the  regulars,  before  dread 
El  Caney,  631. 

It  was  that  fierce  contested  field  when  Chicka- 
mauga  lay,  502. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus,  351. 

It  wound  through  strange  scarred  hills,  down  can 
ons  lone,  346. 

John  Brown  died  on  the  scaffold  for  the  slave, 

397. 
John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast 

Yankee  farmer,  393. 
John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying 

day,  396. 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 

397. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John,  432. 
John  Filson  was  a  pedagogue,  331. 
Joy  in  rebel  Plymouth  town,  in  the  spring  of  sixty- 
four,  535. 

July  the  twenty-second  day,  242. 
Just  as  the  hour  was  darkest,  472. 
Just   as   the  spring   came   laughing  through   the 

strife,  482. 

Just  God!  and  these  are  they,  385. 
Just  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  uprose 

from  the  meadows,  63. 

Kind  Heaven,  assist  the  trembling  muse,  217. 
King  Hancock  sat  in  regal  state,  246. 

Land  of  gold!  —  thy  sisters  greet  thee,  346. 

Land  of  the  Wilful  Gospel,  thou  worst  and  thou 

best,  265. 

Lay  down  the  axe;  fling  by  the  spade,  410. 
Let  the  Nile  cloak  his  head  in  the  clouds,  and  defy, 

341. 

Light  up  thy  homes,  Columbia,  371. 
Lights  out!  And  a  prow  turned  towards  the  South, 

624. 
Like  the  tribes  of  Israel,  514. 


Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear,  144. 

Lo,  Joseph  dreams  his  dream  again,  677. 

Loaded  with  gallant  soldiers,  461. 

Long  lay  the  ocean-paths  from  man  conceal'd,  8. 

Long  the  tyrant  of  our  coast,  290. 

Look  our  ransomed  shores  around,  596. 

Loud  through  the  still  November  au,  570. 

Mad  Berkeley  believed,  with  his  gay  cavaliers,  44. 

Major-General  Scott,  426. 

Make  room,  all  ye  kingdoms,  in  historv  renew  n'd, 

178. 

Make  room  on  our  banner  bright,  358. 
March!  March!  March!  from  sunrite  till  it's  dark, 

193. 

Mater  &  Dios,  preserve  us,  24. 
Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrathful 

away  to  the  council,  61. 
Men  of  the  North  and  West,  409. 
Men  said  at  vespers:  "All  is  well,"  568. 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord,  384. 

Mistress  Penelope  Penwick,  she,  186. 
More  ill  at  ease  was  never  man  than  Walbach,  that 

Lord's  day,  306. 
Morgan  Stanwood,  patriot,  151. 
Mute  he  sat  in  the  saddle,  —  mute  'midst  our  full 

ac claim,  520. 

My  country,  't  is  of  thee,  ii. 
My  dear  brother  Ned,  228. 
My  lords,  with  your  leave,  182. 

Neglected  long  had  been  my  useless  lyre,  117. 

Neptune  and  Mars  in  Council  sate,  1 10. 

Never  mind  the  day  we  left,  or  the  way  the  women 
clung  to  us,  604. 

New  England's  annoyances,  you  that  would  know 
them,  65. 

Night's  diadem  around  thy  head,  594. 

No  beggar  she  in  the  mighty  hall  where  her  bay- 
crowned  sisters  wait,  655. 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they,  153. 

No  lifeless  thing  of  iron  and  stone,  593. 

No  more  for  them  shall  evening's  rose  unclose,  673. 

No  more  words,  410. 

No!  never  such  a  draught  was  poured,  136. 

No  song  of  a  soldier  riding  down,  571. 

No  stately  column  marks  the  hallowed  place,  135. 

Not  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls,  540. 

Not  in  the  dire,  ensanguined  front  of  war,  609. 

Not  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight,  486. 

Not  where  the  battle  red,  417. 

Not  with  slow,  funereal  sound,  603. 

"Not  yet,  not  yet!  steady,  steady,"  162. 

"  Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful  fight,"  357. 

Now  from  their  slumber  waking,  629. 

Now  you  are  one  with  us,  you  know  our  tears,  670. 

O  Boston  wives  and  maids,  draw  near  and  see,  144, 

O  broad-breasted  Queen  among  Nations,  570. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

537. 

O  God  of  Battles,  who  art  still,  612. 
O  Land  beloved,  660. 
O  Land,  of  every  land  the  best,  548. 
O  little  fleet!  that  on  thy  quest  divine,  18. 
O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity,  565. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES 


709 


O  people-chosen!  are  ye  not,  559. 

O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light,  317. 

O  stealthily-creeping  Merrimac,  627. 

O  the  pride  of  Portsmouth  water,  311. 

O  Thou,  that  sendest  out  the  man,  262. 

O  Thou,  whose  glorious  orbs  on  high,  653. 

O'er  Cambridge  set  the  yeoman's  mark,  146. 

O'er  Huron's  wave  the  sun  was  low,  308. 

O'er  the  high  and  o'er  the  lowly,  578. 

O'er  the  rough  main,  with  flowing  sheet,  225. 

O'er  the  warrior  gauntlet  grim,  542. 

O'er  the  waste  of  waters  cruising,  227. 

O'er  town  and  cottage,  vale  and  height,  207. 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time,  283. 

Of  heroes  and  statesmen  I'll  just  mention  four, 
224. 

Of  the  onset,  fear-inspiring,  and  the  firing  and  the 
pillage,  102. 

Of  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  I  purpose  now  to 
sing,  106. 

Oft  shall  the  soldier  think  of  thee,  355. 

Oh,  is  not  this  a  holy  spot,  348. 

Oh!  lonely  is  our  old  green  fort,  300. 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race,  268. 

Oh,  Northern  men  —  true  hearts  and  bold,  427. 

Oh,  rouse  you,  rouse  you,  men  at  arms,  83. 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare,  540. 

Oh,  the  sun  seta  red,  the  moon  shines  white,  321. 

Oh,  who  has  not  heard  of  the  Northmen  of  yore,  2. 

Oh,  who  will  follow  old  Ben  Milain  into  San  Anto 
nio,  354. 

Old  cradle  of  an  infant  world,  46. 

Old  Flood  Ireson!  all  too  long,  284. 

Old  Roes,  Cockburn,  and  Cochrane  too,  315. 

On  Calvert's  plains  new  faction  reigns,  142. 

On  Christmas-day  in  seventy-six,  188. 

On  December,  the  sixth,  188. 

On  every  schoolhouse,  ship,  and  staff,  611. 

On  primal  rocks  she  wrote  her  name,  71. 

On  the  bluff  of  the  Little  Big-Horn,  584. 

Once  came  an  exile,  longing  to  be  free,  335. 

Once  in  a  lifetime,  we  may  see  the  veil,  589. 

Once  more  the  Flower  of  Essex  is  marching  to  the 
wars,  628. 

One  summer  morning  a  daring  band,  487. 

Oppressed  and  few,  but  freemen  yet,  156. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried,  248. 

Our  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain,  512. 

Our  fathers'  God!  from  out  whose  hand,  573. 

Our  keels  are  furred  with  tropic  weed  that  clogs 
the  crawling  tides,  666. 

Our  mother,  the  pride  of  us  all,  174. 

Our  sorrow  sends  its  shadow  round  the  earth,  589. 

Our  trust  is  now  in  thee,  457. 

Out  and  fight!  The  clouds  are  breaking,  409. 

Out  from  the  harbor  of  Amsterdam,  50. 

Out  of  a  Northern  city's  bay,  467. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass,  550. 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire,  460. 

Out  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came,  154. 

Over  his  millions  Death  has  lawful  power,  376. 

Over  the  turret,  shut  in  his  ironclad  tower,  527. 

Pains  the  sharp  sentence  the  heart  in  whose  wrath 

it  was  uttered,  539. 
Palely  intent,  he  urged  his  keel,  537. 
Parading  near  Saint  Peter's  flood,  312. 


Parent  of  all,  omnipotent,  180. 

"Past  two  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken,"  257. 

Plattsburg  Bay!  Plattsburg  Bay,  313. 

Poets  may  sing  of  their  Helicon  streams,  272. 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord!"  The  psalm  to-day,  67. 

Prince  William,  of  the  Brunswick  race,  241. 

Quoth  Satan  to  Arnold:  "My  worthy  good  fellow," 
238. 

Rapacious  Spain,  24. 

"  Read  out  the  names! "  and  Burke  sat  back,  611. 

Rejoice,  rejoice,  brave  patriots,  rejoice,  28. 

Rend  America  asunder,  374. 

"Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot,"  432. 

Ring  round  her!  children  of  her  glorious  skies,  516. 

Ring  the  bells,  nor  ring  them  slowly,  441. 

Rio  Bravo!  Rio  Bravo,  362. 

Room  for  a  Soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover,  419. 

Round  Quebec's  embattled  walls,  171. 

Rouse,  Britons!  at  length,  205. 

Rouse  every  generous,  thoughtful  mind,  139. 

Rudely   forced   to   drink   tea,    Massachusetts,   in 

anger,  144. 
Ruin  and  death  held  sway,  597. 

Saddle!  saddle!  saddle,  579. 

Said  Burgoyne  to  his  men,  as  they  passed  in  review, 

200. 

Said  my  landlord,  white-headed  Gil  Gomez,  370. 
Said  the  captain:  "There  was  mire,"  671. 
Said  the  Sword  to  the  Ax,  'twixt  the  whacks  and 

the  hacks,  114. 

Saint  Patrick,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds,  480. 
St.  Stephen's  cloistered  hail  was  proud,  9. 
Santa  Ana  came  storming,  as  a  storm  might  come, 

357. 
Santa  Maria,  well  thou  tremblest  down  the  wave, 

12. 

Say,  darkeys,  hab  you  seen  de  massa,  522. 
Seize,  O  seize  the  sounding  lyre,  309. 
Shall  we  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunting,  654. 
She  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and  pride, 

400. 
She  has  gone  to  the  bottom!  the  wrath  of  the  tide, 

527. 

She  is  touching  the  cycle,  —  her  tender  tread,  603. 
Shoe  the  steed  with  silver,  521. 
Shoot  down  the  rebels  —  men  who  dare,  643. 
Sho-sh6-ne  Sa-c*Uga-we-a  —  captive  and  wife  was 

she,  340. 

"Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien,"  651. 
Since  you  all  will  have  singing,  and  won't  be  said 

nay,  150. 
Sing,  O  goddess,  the  wrath,  the  ontamable  dander 

of  Keitt,  391. 
Single-handed,    and   surrounded    by   Lecompton's 

black  brigade,  398. 

Sir  George  Prevost,  with  all  his  host,  314. 
Slowly  the  mists  o'er  the  meadow  were  creeping, 

147. 

Smile,  Massachusetts,  smile,  172. 
So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn,  388. 
So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  437. 
So,  they  will  have  it,  408. 

Soe,  Mistress  Anne,  faire  neighboure  myne,  89. 
Some  names  there  are  of  telling  sound,  466. 


710 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 


"Somewhere  in  France,"  upon  a  brown  hillside,  669. 

Sons  of  New  England,  in  the  fray,  480. 

Sons  of  valor,  taste  the  glories,  176. 

Souls  of  the  patriot  dead,  388. 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you,  411. 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice,  34. 

Spain  drew  us  proudly  from  the  womb  of  night, 

640. 
Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward 

far  away,  366. 

"Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest,"  6. 
Spruce  Macaronis,  and  pretty  to  see,  183. 
Squeak  the  fife,  and  beat  the  drum,  179. 
"Stack  Arms!"  I've  gladly  heard  the  cry,  545. 
Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves,  161. 
"Stand  to  your  guns,  men!"  Morris  cried,  464. 
Still  and  dark  along  the  sea,  509. 
Still  shall  the  tyrant  scourge  of  Gaul,  114. 
Streets  of  the  roaring  town,  643. 
Such  darkness  as  when  Jesus  died,  657. 
Sullen  and  dark,  in  the  September  day,  586. 
Summer  of  'sixty-three,  sir,  and  Conrad  was  gone 

away,  494. 

Sun  of  the  stately  Day,  575. 
Sunday  in  Old  England,  526. 

Sure  never  was  picture  drawn  more  to  the  life,  129. 
Sweet  land  of  song,  thy  harp  doth  hang,  375. 

"Talk  of  pluck!"  pursued  the  Sailor,  516. 

Talk  of  the  Greeks  at  Thermopylae,  672. 

Tell  the  story  to  your  sons,  319. 

Thank  God  our  liberating  lance,  667. 

That  balmy  eve,  within  a  trellised  bower,  43. 

That  seat  of  Science,  Athens,  140. 

That  was  a  brave  old  epoch,  101. 

The  banner  of  Freedom  high  floated  unfurled,  294. 

The  billowy  headlands  swiftly  fly,  624. 

The  boarding  nettings  are  triced  for  flight,  295. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high,  57. 

The  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail,  57. 

The  breezes  went  steadily  thro"  the  tall  pines,  185. 

The  captain  of  the  Shannon  came  sailing  up  the 

bay,  300. 

The  "Catamount  Tavern"  is  lively  to-night,  194. 
The  Chesapeake  so  bold,  301. 
The  chill  New  England  sunshine,  90. 
The  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day,  437. 
The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands,  515. 
The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore,  415. 
The  dog  that  is  beat  has  a  right  to  complain,  259. 
The  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly,  460. 
The  footsteps  of  a  hundred  years,  335. 
The  four-way  winds  of  the  world  have  blown,  625. 
The  great  unequal  conflict  past,  263. 
The  guns  are  hushed.   On  every  field  once  flowing, 

562. 

The  heart  leaps  with  the  pride  of  their  story,  634. 
The  home-bound  ship  stood  out  to  sea,  36. 
The  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 

449. 

The  Indian  war  was  over,  123. 
The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race,  417. 
The  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings,  595. 
The  lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub,  558. 
The  Lord  above,  in  tender  love,  264. 
The  loud  drums  are  rolling,   the  mad  trumpets 

blow,  614. 


The  morn  was  cloudy  and  dark  and  gray,  404. 

The  Mothers  of  our  Forest-Land,  330. 

The  muff'ed  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat,  368. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where  are  they,  66. 

The  roadside  forests  here  and  there  were  touched 

with  tawny  gold,  97. 

The  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves,  449. 
The  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering  Day,  486. 
The  sun  had  set,  484. 
The  sun  had  sunk  beneath  the  west,  310. 
The  sun  strikes  gold  the  dirty  street,  674. 
The  sword  was  sheathed:  in  April's  sun,  274. 
The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land,  461. 
The  twenty-second  of  August,  219. 
The  'Vention  did  in  Boston  meet,  271. 
The  Volunteers!  the  Volunteers,  374. 
The  war-drum  is  beating,  prepare  for  the  fight,  412. 
The  war-path  is  true  and  straight,  614. 
The  wind  blows  east,  —  the  wind  blows  west,  91. 
The  winding  way  the  serpent  takes,  32. 
The  windows  of  Heaven  were  open  wide,  600. 
The  winter  night  is  cold  and  drear,  188. 
The  word  of  God  to  Leyden  came,  56. 
The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night,  478. 
The  years  are  but  half  a  score,  585. 
Then  will  a  quiet  gather  round  the  door,  678. 
There  are  twenty  dead  who 're  sleeping  near  the 

slopes  of  Bud  Dajo,  645. 
There  is  blood  on  thy  desolate  shore,  606. 
"There  on  the  left!"  said  the  colonel;  the  battle 

had  shuddered  and  faded  away,  445. 
There  was  no  union  in  the  land,  492. 
These  words  the  poet  heard  in  Paradise,  £01. 
They  come!  —  they  come!  —  the  heroes  come,  262. 
They  fling  their  flags  upon  the  morn,  632. 
They  have  met  at  last  —  as  storm-clouds,  423. 
They  held  her  South  to  Magellan's  iroi.th,  637. 
They  knew  they  were  fighting  our  war.     As  the 

months  grew  to  years,  667. 
They  say  the  Spanish  ships  are  out,  621. 
They  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valor  had  won, 

443. 
They've  turned  at  last!  Good-by,   King  George, 

183. 

Think  you  the  dead  are  lonely  in  that  place,  674. 
This  is  the  place  where  Andre1  met  his  death,  239. 
This  was  the  man  God  gave  us  when  the  hour,  275. 
This  year,  till  late  in  April,  the  snow  fell  thick  and 

light,  414. 
Those  were  the  conquered,  still  too  proud  to  yield, 

492. 

Thou  hast  not  drooped  thj'  stately  head,  514. 
Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State,  660. 
Thou  wonder  of  the  Atlantic  shore,  338. 
Though  with  the  North  we  sympathize,  428. 
Thrash  Rway,  you'll  hev  to  rattle,  360. 
Three  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed,  530. 
Three  ships  of  war  had  Preble  when  he  left  the 

Naples  shore,  282. 

Through  calm  and  storm  the  years  have  led,  574. 
Through  darkening  pines  the  cavaliers  marched  on 

their  sunset  way,  19. 
Through  the  clangor  of  the  cannon,  302. 
Through  verdant  banks  where  Thames's  branches 

glide,  70. 
Thunder  our  thanks  to  her  —  guns,  hearts,  and 

lips,  594. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES 


711 


Thus,  some  tall  tree  that  long  hath  stood,  275. 

Thus  spake  the  Lord,  tjlO. 

Thy  blue  waves,  Patapsco,  flow'd  soft  and  serene, 
316. 

Thy  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act,  477. 

Thy  merits,  Wolfe,  transcend  all  human  praise, 
123. 

Time  was  he  sang  the  British  Brute,  642. 

'T  is  done  —  the  wondrous  thoroughfare,  579. 

'T  is  God  that  girds  our  armor  on,  264. 

'Tis  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty, 
one  remembers,  103. 

'T  is  noouday  by  the  buttonwood,  with  slender- 
shadowed  bud,  152. 

'T  is  not  the  President  alone,  649. 

'T  is  of  a  gallant  Yankee  ship  that  flew  the  stripes 
and  stars,  223. 

'T  is  of  a  little  drummer,  451. 

To  arms,  to  arms!  my  jolly  grenadiers,  112. 

To  deities  of  gauds  arid  gold,  660. 

To  drive  the  kine  one  summer's  morn,  233. 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat,  186. 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er 
mapless  miles  of  sea,  640. 

To  Houston  at  Gonzales  town,  ride,  Ranger,  for 
your  life,  355. 

To  the  Cowpens  riding  proudly,  boasting  loudly, 
rebels  scorning,  252. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise 
to-day,  77. 

''To  the  winds  give  our  banner,"  99. 

To  western  woods  and  lonely  plains,  331. 

Toll!  Roland,  toll,  408. 

To-night  we  strive  to  read,  as  we  may  best,  71. 

'T  was  a  grand  display  was  the  prince's  ball,  382. 

'T  was  a  wonderful  brave  fight,  407. 

'T  was  Captain  Church,  bescarred  and  brown,  88. 

'T  was  Friday  morn:  the  train  drew  near,  414. 

'T  was  hurry  and  scurry  at  Monmouth  town,  213. 

'T  was  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third,  135. 

'T  was  Juet  spoke  —  the  Half  Moon's  mate,  50. 

'T  was  June  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  June  with  the 
rose's  breath,  161. 

'T  was  May  upon  the  mountains,  and  on  the  airy 
wing,  157. 

'T  was  midsummer;  cooling  breezes  all  the  languid 
forests  fanned,  349. 

'T  was  ni<?ht  upon  the  Darro,  15. 

'T  was  November  the  fourth,  in  the  year  of  ninety- 
one,  332. 

'T  was  on  a  pleasant  mountain.  251. 

'T  was  on  board  the  sloop  of  war,  Wasp,  boys,  293. 

'T  was  on  the  glorious  day,  299. 

'T  was  on  the  twelfth  of  April,  405. 

'T  was  out  upon  mid-ocean  that  the  San  Jacinto 
hailed,  429. 

'T  was  the  dead  of  the  night.  By  the  pine-knot's 
red  light,  148. 

'T  was  the  heart  of  the  murky  night,  and  the  low 
est  ebb  of  the  tide,  230. 

'T  was  the  proud  Sir  Peter  Parker  came  sailing  in 
from  the  sea,  181. 

'T  was  the  very  verge  of  May.  615. 

'T  was  the  year  of  the  famice  in  Plymouth  of  old,  62. 

'Twixt  clouded  heights  Spain  hurls  to  doom,  636. 

Two  fleets  have  sailed  from  Spain.  The  one  would 
seek,  622. 


Two  hours,  or  more,  beyond  the  prime  of  a  blithe 

April  day,  507. 

Unconquer'd  captive!  —  close  thine  eye,  523. 
Under  the  great  hill  sloping  bare,  80: 
Under  the  walls  of  Monterey,  364. 
Unhappy  Boston!  see  thy  sons  deplore,  134. 
Untrammelled  Giant  of  the  West,  609. 
Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn,  444. 
Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day,  521. 
Up  the  hillside,  down  the  glen,  358. 
Up  through  a  cloudy  sky,  the  sun,  195. 
Upon  the  barren  sand,  39. 

Vain  Britons,  boast  no  longer  with  proud  indig 
nity,  170. 
Victorious  knights  without  reproach  or  fear,  675. 

Warden  at  ocean's  gate,  595. 

Was  there  ever  message  sweeter,  440. 

Wave,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  sol 
diers  of  the  North,  489. 

We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming;  our  starry  ban 
ner  shines,  629. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more,  440. 

We  are  the  troop  that  ne'er  will  stoop,  142. 

We  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noontide  air,  519. 

We  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old,  389. 

We  do  accept  thee,  heavenly  Peace,  547. 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides,  247. 

We  have  an  old  mother  that  peevish  is  grown,  142. 

We  have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core,  562. 

We  lay  in  the  Trenches  we'd  dug  in  the  Ground, 
162. 

We  loved  the  wild  clamor  of  battle,  655. 

We  mustered  at  midnight,  in  darkness  .ve  formed, 
417. 

We  sailed  to  and  fro  in  Erie's  broad  lake,  303. 

We  were  not  many,  we  who  stood,  363. 

We  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from  the  coast  of  Pan 
ama,  598. 

Weak- winged  is  song,  550. 

Wearied  arm  and  broken  sword,  38. 

"Well,  General  Grant,  have  you  heard  the  news," 
524. 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they,  66. 

Well,  yes,  I've  lived  in  Texas  since  the  spring  of 
'61,  402. 

Were  there  no  crowns  on  earth,  538. 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his  breast, 
486. 

What  are  you  waiting  for,  George,  I  pray,  433. 

What  distant  thunders  rend  the  skies,  220. 

What  heavy-hoofed  coursers  the  wilderness  roam, 
305. 

What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung,  191. 

What  is  that  a-billowing  there,  291. 

What  is  the  voice  I  hear,  654. 

What  mean  these  peals  from  every  tower,  523. 

What!  shall  the  sudden  blade,  583. 

What!  soar'd  the  old  eagle  to  die  at  the  sun,  353. 

What  time  the  Lord  drew  back  the  sea,  652. 

What  time  the  noble  Lovewell  came,  1C8. 

When  a  certain  great  King,  whose  initial  is  G.,  258. 

When  arms  and  numbers  both  have  failed,  645. 

When  brave  Van  Rensselaer  cross'd  the  stream, 
292. 


712 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


When  Britain,  with  envy  and  malice  inflamed,  298. 
When  British  troops  first  landed  here,  256. 
When  Carolina's  hope  grew  pale,  250. 
When  Congress  sent  great  Washington,  169. 
When  darkness  prevail'd   and   aloud   on   the   air, 

339. 

When  fair  Columbia  was  a  child,  140. 
When    Faction,   in   league   with   the   treacherous 

Gaul,  241. 

When  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave,  478. 
When   Freedom,   fair   Freedom,   her   banner  dis- 

play'd,  279. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height,  192. 
When  George  the  King  would  punish  folk,  138. 
When  Jack  the  King's  commander,  202. 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again,  549. 
When  life  hath  run  its  largest  round,  377. 
When  North  first  began,  204. 
When  Pershing's  men  go  marching  into  Picardy, 

marching,  marching  into  Picardy,  671. 
When  ruthful  time  the  South's  memorial  places, 

564. 

When  shall  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay,  318. 
When  tempest  winnowed  grain  from  bran,  445. 
When  the  British  fleet  lay,  215. 
When  the  dying  flame  of  day,  245. 
When  the  Norn-Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour, 

399. 
When  the  vengeance  wakes,  when  the  battle  breaks, 

613. 
When  the  war-cry  of  Liberty  rang  through  the 

land,  166. 

"When  there  is  Peace,  our  land  no  more,"  678. 
When  you  speak  of  the  dauntless  deeds,  644. 
Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose,  276. 
Where  murdered  Mumford  lies,  476. 
Where  nowadays  the  Battery  lies,  54. 
Where  shall  we  seek  for  a  hero,  and  where  shall  we 

find  a  story,  132. 
Where  the  dews  and  the  rains  of  heaven  have  their 

fountain,  506. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride,  39. 
Where  the  short-legged  Esquimaux,  566. 
Where  the  wild  wave,  from  ocean  proudly  swell 
ing,  323. 

Whereas  the  rebels  hereabout,  160. 
While  far  along  the  eastern  sky,  571. 
While  Sherman  stood  beneath  the  hottest  fire,  499. 
Whilst  in  peaceful  quarters  lying,  210. 
Who  are  you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly 

human,  514. 
Who  cries  that  the  days  of  daring  are  those  that 

are  faded  far,  630. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna,  474. 
Who  is  this  ye  say  is  slain,  416. 
Who  now  dare  longer  trust  thy  mother  hand,  657. 


Who  with  the  soldiers  was  stanch  danger-sharer, 
462. 

Whoop!  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose,  412. 

"Who've  ye  got  there?"  —  "Only  a  dying  bro 
ther,"  485. 

Why  come  ye  hither,  stranger,  193. 

Why  do  I  sleep  amid  the  snows,  72. 

Wide  o'er  the  valley  the  pennons  are  fluttering, 
371. 

Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates,  659. 

Will  you  hear  of  a  bloody  battle,  48. 

Winds  that  sweep  the  southern  mountains,  512. 

With  drooping  sail  and  pennant,  663. 

With  half  the  Western  world  at  stake,  328. 

With  restless  step  of  discontent,  23. 

With  sharpened  pen  and  wit,  one  tunes  his  lays, 
52. 

With  shot  and  shell,  like  a  loosened  hell,  630. 

With  that  pathetic  impudence  of  youth,  677. 

Women  are  timid,  cower  and  shrink,  216. 

Yankee  Doodle  sent  to  Town,  376. 

Yankee  Doodle  went  to  war,  425. 

Ye  brave  Colunbian  bands!  a  long  farewell,  262. 

Ye  brave  sons  of  Freedom,  come  join  in  the  chorus, 
285. 

Ye  Columbians  so  bold,  attend  while  I  sing,  2. 

Ye  elms  that  wave  on  Malvern  Bill,  439. 

Ye  gentlemen  and  ladies  fair,  326. 

Ye  jolly  Yankee  gentlemen,  who  live  at  home  in 
ease,  428. 

Ye  jovial  throng,  come  join  the  song,  337. 

Ye  parliament  of  England,  318. 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away,  587. 

Ye  sons  of  Columbia,  unite  in  the  cause,  278. 

Ye  sons  of  Columbia,  who  bravely  have  fought, 
276. 

Ye  sons  of  Massachusetts,  all  who  love  that  hon 
ored  name,  85. 

Ye  sons  of  Sedition,  how  comes  it  to  pass,  140. 

Yes,  we'll  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  we'll  rally 
once  again,  500. 

Yes,  yes,  my  boy,  there 's  no  mistake,  639. 

Yet  had  his  sun  not  risen;  from  his  lips,  11. 

You  are  looking  now  on  old  Tom  Moore,  345. 

You  brave  heroic  n.inds,  42. 

You  dare  to  say  with  perjured  lips,  664. 

You  know  that  day  at  Peach  Tree  Creek,  510. 

You  know  there  goes  a  tale,  232. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier,  543. 

You  that  crossed  the  ocean  old,  22. 

Your  threats  how  vain,  Corregidor,  618. 

You're  a  traitor  convicted,  you  know  very  well, 
401. 

Zounds!  how  the  price  went  flashing  through,  567. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Aaron  Burr's  Wooing,  E.  C.  Stedman,  231. 

About  Savannah,  Unknown,  245. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  W.  C.  Bryant,  540. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  E.  C.  Stedman,  538. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  540. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  Tom  Taylor,  543. 

Abraham     Lincoln     walks    at   Midnight,    Vachel 

Lindsay,  661. 

Acceptation,  M.  J.  Preston,  547. 
Across  the  Delaware,  Witt  Carleton,  188. 
Ad  Patriam,  Clinton  ScoUard,  660. 
Adams  and  Liberty,  R.  T.  Paine,  276. 
Additional  Verses  to  Hail  Columbia,  0.  W.  Holmes, 

593. 

Adrian  Block's  Song,  E.  E.  Hale,  51. 
After  the  Centennial,  C.  P.  Cranch,  578. 
After  the  Comanches,  Unknown,  579. 
After  the  Fire,  O.  W.  Holmes,  571. 
After  the  War,  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  678. 
Aguinaldo,  Bertrand  Shadwell,  645. 
Alabama,  The,  Maurice  Bell,  527. 
Alamance,  S.  W.  Whiting,  135. 
Alaska,  Joaguin  Miller,  567. 
"Albemarle"  Gushing,  J.  J.  Roche,  535. 
Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  K.  B.  Sherwood,  456. 
Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  F .  O.  Ticknor,  457. 
Allatoona,  Unknown,  512. 
America,  A.  C.  Cox,  2. 
America,  S.  F.  Smith,  ii. 
American  Flag,  The,  J.  R.  Drake,  192. 
American  Independence,  Francis  Hopkinson,  178. 
American  Patriot's  Prayer,  The,  Unknown,  180. 
American  Soldier's  Hymn,  The,  Unknown,  264. 
Ancient  Prophecy,  An,  Philip  Freneau,  258. 
Andre,  C.  F.  Bates,  239. 
Andre's  Request    to    Washington,    N.  P.  Willis, 

233. 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The,  J.  G.  Whitlier,  366. 
Anne  Hutchinson's  Exile,  E.  E.  Hale,  73. 
Apostrophe  to  the  Island  of  Cuba,  J.  G.  Percival, 

605. 

Arctic  Vision,  An,  Bret  Harte,  566. 
Arizona,  S.  M.  Hall,  655. 
Armstrong  at  Fayal,  The,  Wallace  Rice,  321. 
Arnold  at  Stillwater,  T.  D.  English,  200. 
Arnold  the  Vile  Traitor,  Unknown,  238. 
Assault  on  the  Fortress,  The,  Timothy  Dwight,  70. 
Assunpink  and  Princeton,  T.  D.  English,  189. 
Astrse  at  the  Capitol,  J.  G   Whiltier,  478. 
At  Fredericksburg,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  447. 
At  Port  Royal,  J.  G.  Whittier,  461. 
At  the  Cannon's  Mouth,  Herman  Melville,  537. 
At  the  President's  Grave,  R.  W.  Gilder,  590. 
Attack,  The,  T.  B,  Read,  463. 

Bacon's  Epitaph,  Unknown,  45. 

Balboa,  Nora  Perry,  23. 

Ballad  of  Bunker  Hill,  The,  E.  E.  Hale,  162. 


Ballad  of  Chickamauga,  The,  Maurice  Thompson, 

501. 

Ballad  of  Ishmael  Day,  The,  Unknown,  487. 
Ballad  of  Manila  Bay,  A,  C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  618. 
Ballad  of  New  Orleans,  The,  G.  H.  Boker,  472. 
Ballad  of  Paco  Town,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard,  644. 
Ballad  of  Redhead's  Day,  A,  R.  B.  Glaenzer,  672. 
Ballad  of  Sweet  P,  The,  V.  W.  Cloud,  186. 
Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party,  A,  O.  W.  Holmes, 

136. 
Ballad  of  the  Conemaugh  Flood,  A,  H.  D.  Rawns- 

ley,  600. 
Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A,  H.  W.  Longfellow, 

110. 

Ballade  of  Expansion,  Hilda  Johnson,  642. 
Barbara  Frietchie,  J.  G.  Whittier,  444. 
Barney's  Invitation,  Philip  Freneau,  226. 
Baron  Renfrew's  Ball,  C.  G.  Halpine,  382. 
Bartholdi  Statue,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  595. 
Battle  Autumn  of  1862,  The,  J.  G.  Whiitier,  460. 
Battle  Ballad,  A,  F.  O.  Ticknor,  424. 
Battle  Cry,  W.  H.  Venable,  614. 
Battle-Cry  of  Freedom,  The,  G.  F.  Root,  500. 
Battle-Field,  The,  Lloyd  Mifflin,  492. 
Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  The,  J.  W.  Howe, 

384. 

Battle  in  the  Clouds,  The,  W.  D.  Howetts,  506. 
Battle  of  Baltimore,  The,  Unknown,  315. 
Battle  of  Pennington,  The,  T.  P.  Rodman,  195. 
Battle  of  Bridgewater,  The,  Unknown,  308. 
Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  The,  Unknown,  167. 
Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor,  The,  P.  H.  Hayne, 

507. 

Battle  of  Charlestown,  The,  H.  H.  BrowneU,  395. 
Battle  of  Erie,  The,  Unknown,  303. 
Battle  of  Eutaw,  The,  W.  G.  Simms,  254. 
Battle  of  King's  Mountain,  The,  Unknown,  251. 
Battle  of  Lake  Champlain,  The,  Philip  Freneau, 

312. 

Battle  of  La  Prairie,  The,  W.  D.  S.  Lighthatt,  101. 
Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain,  The,  G.  H.  Boker, 

505. 
Battle  of  LoveU's  Pond,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow, 

109. 

Battle  of  Manila,  The,  Richard  Honey,  619. 
Battle  of  Monmouth,  The,  Unknown,  210. 
Battle  of  Monmouth,  The,  T.  D.  English,  211. 
Battle  of  Morris'  Island,  The,  Unknown,  404. 
Battle  of  Murfreesboro,  The,  Kinahan  Cornwattis, 

459. 

Battle  of  Muskingum,  The,  W.  H.  Safford,  337. 
Battle  of  New  Orleans,  The,  T.  D.  English,  323. 
Battle  of  Oriskany,  The,  C.  D.  Helmer,  198. 
Battle  of  Plattsburg,  The,  Unknown,  314. 
Battle  of  Plattsburg  Bay,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard, 

313. 

Battle  of  Queenstown,  The,  William  Banker,  292. 
Battle  of  Somerset,  C.  C.  CuUen,  454. 


714 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Battle  of  Stonington,  The,  Philip  Freneau,  309. 
Battle  of  the  Cowpens,  The,  T.  D.  English,  252. 
Battle    of    the    Kegs,    The,   Francis    Hopkineon, 

208. 

Battle  of  the  King's  Mill,  T.  D.  English,  370. 
Battle  of  Tippecanoe,  The,  Unknown,  339. 
Battle  of  Trenton,  The,  Unknown,  188. 
Battle  of  Valparaiso,  The,  Unknown,  307. 
Battle  Song,  R.  B.  Wilson,  613. 
Battle  Song  of  the  Oregon,  Wallace  Rice,  624. 
Bay  Fight,  The,  H.  H.  BrowneU,  530. 
Beauregard,  C.  M.  Warfield,  457. 
Before  Vicksburg,  G.  H.  Boker,  499. 
Bells  at  Midnight,  The,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  588. 
Ben  Milam,  W.  H.  Wharton,  355. 
Bennington,  W.  H.  Babcock,  196. 
Bermudas,  Andrew  Marvell,  39. 
Bethel,  A.  J.  H.  Duganne,  417. 
Betsy's  Battle  Flag,  Minna  Irving,  191. 
Betty  Jane,  T.  D.  English,  216. 
Beyond  the  Potomac,  P.  H.  Hayne,  443. 
Beyond  Wars,  David  Morton,  678. 
Bivouac    of    the    Dead,    The,    Theodore   O'Hara, 

368. 

Black  Regiment,  The,  G.  H.  Boker,  500. 
Blasted  Herb,  The,  Mesech  Weare,  139. 
Blennerhassett's  Island,  T.  B.  Read,  335. 
Blood  is  Thicker  than  Water,  Wallace  Rice,  380. 
Blue  and  the  Gray,  The,  F.  M.  Finch,  563. 
Boasting  of  Sir  Peter  Parker,  The,  Clinton  Scottard, 

181. 

Bob  Anderson,  my  Beau,  Unknown,  403. 
Bombardment  of  Bristol,  The,  Unknown,  171. 
Bonhomme    Richard    and    Serapis,    The,    Philip 

Freneau,  225. 

Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  The,  Annie  Ketchum,  413. 
Boston,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  570. 
Boston  Hymn,  R.  W.  Emerson,  478. 
Bower  of  Peace,  The,  Robert  Southey,  318. 
Boy  Brittan,  Forceythe  Willson,  455. 
Braddock's  Fate,  Stephen  Tilden,  112. 
Brave  Paulding  and  the  Spy,  Unknown,  237. 
Brave  Wolfe,  Unknown,  122. 
Breath  on  the  Oat,  J.  R.  Taylor,  641. 
Brest  Left  Behind,  J.  C.  Farrar,  674. 
"Brigade  must  not  know,  Sir,  The,"    Unknown, 

485. 

Britannia  to  Columbia,  Alfred  Austin,  654. 
British  Grenadier,  The,  Unknown,  132. 
British  Lyon  roused,  The,  Stephen  Tilden,  111. 
British  Valor  displayed,   Francis  Hopkinson,  208. 
Brooklyn  at  Santiago,  The,  Wallace  Rice,  636. 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  593. 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  The,  Edna  Dean  Proctor,  593. 
Brother  Jonathan's    Lament  for    Sister  Caroline, 

O.  W.  Holmes,  400. 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  J.  G.  Whittier,  396. 
Buena  Vista,  Albert  Pike,  364. 
Buffalo,  F.  E.  Coates,  649. 
Bunker  Hill,  G.  H.  Cahert,  162. 
Burial  of  Barber,  J.  G.  Whittier.  389. 
Burial  of  Latane,  The,  J.  R.  Thompson,  437. 
Burning  of  Jamestown,  The,  T.  D.  English,  44. 
Bury  Them,  H.  H.  Brownell,  SOS. 
Butler's  Proclamation.  P.  H.  Hayne,  476. 
By  the  Conemaugh,  F.  E.  Coates,  599. 
By  the  Potomac,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  449. 


C.  A.  S.  Commissioners,  The,  Unknown,  428. 

Cable  Hymn,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  565. 

Caldwell  of  Springfield,  Bret  Harle,  232. 

California,  L.  II.  Sigourney,  346. 

"Call  All,"  Unknown,  412. 

Call  to  Arms,  A,  M.  R.  S.  Andrews,  668. 

Call  to  the  Colors,  The,  Arthur  Guilerman,  627. 

Canonicus  and  Roger  Williams,  Unknown,  73. 

Can't,  H.  P.  Spofford,  519. 

Captive  Ships  at  Manila,  The,  Dorothy  Paul,  C66. 

Captive's  Hymn,  The,  E.  D.  Proctor,  123. 

Capture  of  Little  York,  Unknown,  298. 

Carmen  Bellicosum,  G.  H.  McMaster,  206. 

Carolina,  Henry  Timrod,  515. 

Cassandra  Southwick,  J.  G.  Whittier,  77. 

Cast  Down,  but  not  Destroyed,  Unknown,  427. 

Cedar  Mountain,  Annie  Fields,  441. 

Centennial  Hymn,  J.  G.  Whittier,  573. 

Centennial  Hymn,  W.  C.  Bryant,  574. 

Centennial  Meditation  of  Columbia,  The,  Sidney 

Lanier,  573. 

Cervera,  Bertrand  Shadwell,  638. 
Charge  at  Santiago,  The,  IF.  H.  Hayne,  630. 
Charge  by  the  Ford,  The,  T.  D.  English,  438. 
Charleston,  Henry  Timrod,  507. 
Charleston,  P.  H.  Hayne,  515. 
Charleston,  R.  W.  Gilder,  594. 
Chesapeake  and  Shannon,  Unknown,  301. 
Chicago,  Bret  Harte,  569. 
Chicago,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  569. 
Chicago,  J.  G.  Whittier,  568. 
Christopher  of  the  Shenandoah,  A.  E.  M.  Thomas, 

520. 

Church  of  the  Revolution,  The,  Hezekiah  Butter- 
worth,  570. 

Civil  War,  C.  D.  Shortly,  432. 
Clerical  Oppressors,  J.  G.  Whittier,  385. 
Colonel  Ellsworth,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  416. 
Columbia,  Timothy  Dwight,  180. 
Columbus,  E.  E.  Hale,  18. 
Columbus,  Joaquin  Miller,  14. 
Columbus,  L.  H.  Sigourney,  9. 
Columbus  and  the  Mayflower,  Lord  Houghton,  18. 
Columbus  at  the  Convent,  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  10. 
Columbus  Dying,  E.  D.  Proctor,  18. 
Columbus  in  Chains,  Philip  Freneau,  17. 
Columbus  to  Ferdinand,  Philip  Freneau,  9. 
Come,  ye  lads,  who  wish  to  shine,  Unknown,  287. 
Comfort  of  the  Trees,  The,  R.  W.  Gilder,  650. 
Complaint  of  New  Amsterdam,  The,  Jacob  Steen- 

dam,  53. 

Comrades,  H.  R.  Dorr,  629. 
Conemaugh,  E.  S.  P.  Ward,  601. 
Conquered  Banner,  The,  A.  J.  Ryan,  547. 
Constellation  and  the  Insurgente,  The,  Unknown, 

280. 
Constitution  and  the  Guerrie're,  The,    Unknown, 

288. 

Constitution's  Last  Fight,  The,  J.  J.  Roche,  327. 
Convention  Song,  Unknown,  271. 
Cornwallis's  Surrender,  Unknown,  256. 
Cow-Chace,  The,  John  Andre,  233. 
Craven,  Henry  Newbolt,  527. 
Crisis,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  372. 
Crispus  Attucks,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  132. 
Crossing    at   Fredericksburg,   The,   G.    H.    Boktr, 

446. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Cruise  of  the  Fair  American,  The,  Unknown,  219. 

Cruise  of  the  Monitor,  The,  G.  H.  Boker,  467. 

Cry  to  Arms,  A,  Henry  Timrod,  411. 

Cuba,  E.  C.  Stedman,  607. 

Cuba,  Harvey  Rice,  60S. 

Cuba  Libre,  Joaquin  Miller,  609. 

Cuba  to  Columbia,  Will  Carleton,  608. 

Cumberland,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  164. 

Cumberland,  The,  Herman  Melville,  466. 

Custer,  E.  C.  Stedman,  583. 

Custer's  Last  Charge,  Frederick  WhiUaker,  582. 

"Cut  the  Cables,"  R.  B.  Wilson,  622. 

Dance,  The,  Unknown,  256. 

Daniel  Webster,  O.  W.  Holmes,  377. 

Darien,  Edwin  Arnold,  651. 

Daughter  of  the  Regiment,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard, 

462. 
Daughter's    Rebellion,    The,    Francis    Hopkinson, 

140. 

"Days  of  'Forty-Nine,  The,"  Unknown,  345. 
Dead,  The,  David  Morton,  674. 
Dead  President,  The,  E.  R.  Sill,  538. 
Dear  President,  The,  J.  J.  Piatt,  539. 
Death  of  Colman,  The,  Thomas  Frost,  50. 
Death  of  General  Pike,  The,  Lauahlon  Osborn,  299. 
Death  of  Goody  Nurse,  The,  R.  T.  Cooke,  90. 
Death  of  Harrison,  The,  N.  P.  Willis,  353. 
Death  of  Jefferson,  The,  Hezekiah  Bulterworth,  349. 
Death  of  Lyon,  The,  Henry  Peterson,  453. 
Death  of  the  Lincoln  Despotism,  Unknown,  429. 
Death  of  Warren,  The,  Epes  Sargent,  166. 
Death  of  Wolfe,  The,  Unknown,  123. 
Death  Song,  Alonzo  Lewis,  70. 
Debate  in  the  Sennit,  The,  J.  R.  Lowell,  386. 
Deed  of  Lieutenant  Miles,  The,  Clinton  Scollard, 

644. 

Deeds  of  Valor  at  Santiago,  Clinton  Scollard,  630. 
Defeat  and  Victory,  Wallace  Rice,  302. 
Defence  of  Lawrence,  The,  Richard  Realf,  390. 
Defence  of  the  Alamo,  The,  Joaquin  Miller,  357. 
Descent  on  Middlesex,  The,  Peter  Si.  John,  242. 
Destroyer  of  Destroyers,  The,  Wallace  Rice,  635. 
Dewey  and  His  Men,  Wallace  Rice,  617. 
Dewej  at  Manila,  R.  U.  Johnson,  615. 
Dewey  in  Manila  Bay,  R.  V.  Risley,  620. 
Dirge  for  Ashby,  M .  J.  Preston,  439. 
Dirge  for  a  Soldier,  G.  H.  Boker,  442. 
Dirge  for  McPherson,  A,  Herman  Melville,  511. 
Dirpe  for  One  who  fell  in  Battle,  T.  W.  Parsons, 

419. 

Discovery  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  R.  E.  White,  343. 
Dixie,  Albert  Pike,  411. 

Down  the  Little  Big  Horn,  Francis  Brooks,  580. 
Downfall  of  Piracy,  The,  Benjamin  Franklin,  48. 
Draft  Riot,  The,  Charles  de  Kay,  496. 
Dragon  of  the  Seas,  The,  T.  N.  Page,  621. 
Driving  Home  the  Cows,  K.  P.  Osgood,  550. 
Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  The,  Sidney 

Lanier,  486. 

Eagle  and  Vulture,  The,  T.  B.  Read,  525. 
Eagle  of  Corinth,  The,  H.  H.  Brownell,  458. 
Ea?le's  Song,  The,  Richard  Mansfield,  558. 
Eight  Volunteers,  L.  C.  Bailey,  626. 
El  Emplazado,  W.  H.  Venable,  613. 
Ellsworth,  Unknoum,  416. 


Emancipation  from  British  Dependence,  Philip 
Freneau,  176. 

Embarkation,  The,  H.  W.  Lonufellow,  115. 

England  and  America  in  1782,  Alfred  Tennyson, 
262. 

Enterprise  and  Boxer,  Unknown,  302. 

Epicedium,  J.  C.  Miller,  673. 

Epigram,  Unknown,  144. 

Epigram,  Unknown,  238. 

Epigram  on  the  Poor  of  Boston,  Unknown,  140. 

Essex  Regiment  March,  G.  E.  Woodberry,  628. 

Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors,  Walt  Whitman,  514. 

Eutaw  Springs,  Philip  Freneau,  255. 

Evacuation  of  New  York  by  the  British,  Unknown, 
262. 

Eve  of  Bunker  Hill,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard,  161. 

Expedition  to  Wessagusset,  The,  H.  W.  Long 
fellow,  63. 

Fairest  of  Freedom's   Daughters,   J.   E.   Rankin, 

594. 

Faithful  unto  Death,  R.  H.  Titherinaton,  650. 
Fall  of  Maubila,  The,  T.  D.  English,  27. 
Fall  of  Richmond,  The,  Herman  Melville,  523. 
Fall  of  Tecumseh,  The,  Unknown,  305. 
Family  of  Nations,  The,  Willard  Wattles,  677. 
Farewell,  Peace,  Unknown,  287. 
Farragut,  W.  T.  Meredith,  528. 
Fate  of  John  Burgoyne,  The,  Unknown,  202. 
Federal  Constitution,  The,  William  Milns,  272. 
Federal  Convention,  The,  Unknown,  269. 
Fight  at  Dajo,  The,  A.  E.  Wood,  645. 
Fight  at  San  Jacinto,  The,  J.  W.  Palmer,  357. 
Fight  at  Sumter,  The,  Unknown,  407. 
Fight  of  the  Armstrong  Privateer,  The,  J.  J.  Roche, 

319. 

Fight  over  the  Body  of  Keitt,  The,  Unknown,  391. 
Fighting  Race,  The,  J.  I.  C.  Clarke,  611. 
Final  Struggle,  The,  L.  J.  Block,  11. 
First  American  Congress,  The,  Joel  Barlow,  273. 
First  American  Sailors,  The,  Wallace  Rice,  34. 
-First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish,  The,  M.  J. 

Preston,  58. 

First  Thanksgiving,  The,  Clinton  Scollard,  68. 
First  Thanksgiving  Day,  The,  M .  J.  Preston,  60. 
First  Three,  The,  Clinton  Scollard,  669. 
First  Voyage  of  John  Cabot,  The,  Unknown,  19. 
Firstfruits  in  1812,  Wallace  Rice,  291. 
Five  Kernels  of  Corn,  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  62. 
Flag,  The,  J.  J.  Roche,  378. 
Flawless  his  Heart,  J.  R.  Lowell,  128. 
Fleet  at  Santiago,  The,  C.  E.  Russell,  634. 
Foe  at  the  Gates,  The,  J.  D.  Bruns,  516. 
Fort  Bowyer,  C.  L.  S.  Jones,  323. 
Fort  Duquesne,  F.  B.  Plimpton,  119. 
Fort  McHenry,  Unknown,  316. 
Founders  of  Ohio,  The,  W.  H.  Venable,  335. 
Fountain  of  Youth,  The,  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  21. 
Fourth  of  July,  The,  John  Pierpont,  179. 
Fredericksburg,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  449. 
Free  America,  Joseph  Warren,  140. 
From  Potomac  to  Merrimac,  E.  E.  Hale,  49. 
Full  Cycle,  J.  W.  Chadwick,  640. 

Gallant  Fifty-One,  The,  H.  L.  Flash,  606. 
Gallant   Fighting   "Joe,"   The,   James  Stevenson, 
430. 


7 16 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Garfield's  Ride  at  Chickamauga,  Hezekiah  BiUter- 

worth,  503. 

Gathering,  The,  H.  B.  Swett,  629. 
General  Armstrong,  The,  Unknown,  296. 
General  Howe's  Letter,  Unknown,  205. 
George  Washington,  J.  H.  Ingham,  275. 
Geronimo,  Ernest  McGaffey,  586. 
Gettysburg,  E.  C.  Stedman,  489. 
Gettysburg,  J.  J.  Roche,  492. 
Giles  Corey,  Unknown,  96. 
Glory   Hallelujah,  or  John  Brown's  Body,  C.  8. 

Hall,  397. 

God  makes  a  Path,  Roger  Williams,  72. 
God  save  our  President,  F.  de  H.  Janvier,  403. 
Gospel  of  Peace,  The,  J.  J.  Roche,  607. 
Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle,  O.  W. 

Holmes,  163. 

Great  Bell  Roland,  The,  Theodore  Tilton,  408. 
Great  Swamp  Fight,  The,  Caroline.  Hazard,  83. 
Green  Mountain  Boys,  The,  W.  C.  Bryant,  157. 
Greeting  from  England,  Unknown,  614. 
"Grey  Horse  Troop,"  The,  R.  W.  Chambers,  585. 
Grover  Cleveland,  Joel  Benton,  658. 
Guns  in  the  Grass,  The,  Thomas  Frost,  361. 

Haarlem  Heights,  Arthur  Guiterman,  183. 

Hail  Columbia,  Joseph  Hopkinson,  277. 

Half-Mast,  Lloyd  Mifflin,  61 1. 

Halifax  Station,  Unknown,  289. 

Henry  Hudson's  Quest,  B.  E.  Stevenson,  50. 

Herndon,  S.  W.  Mitchell,  380. 

Hero  of  Bridgewater,  The,  C.  L.  S.  Jones,  309. 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  The,  W.  H.  Thompson, 
491. 

Hobson  and  His  Men,  Robert  Loveman,  627. 

Hooker  's  Across,  G.  H.  Boker,  483. 

Hot  Stuff,  Edward  Bolwood,  121. 

How  Cyrus  laid  the  Cable,  J.  G.  Saxe,  565. 

How  McClellan  took  Manassas,  Unknown,  434. 

How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry,  E.  C.  Sttd- 
man,  393. 

How  stands  the  Glass  around,  James  Wolfe,  121. 

How  the  Cumberland  went  down,  S.  W.  Mitchell, 
466. 

How  \\e  became  a  Nation,  H.  P.  Spofford,  138. 

How  we  burned  the  Philadelphia,  Barrett  East 
man,  281. 

Hull's  Surrender,  Unknown,  287. 

Hunters  of  Kentucky,  The,  Unknown,  326. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,  H.  W. 
Longfellow,  245. 

Hymn  of  the  West,  E.  C.  Stedman,  653. 

"I  Give  my  Soldier  Boy  a  Blade,"  Unknown, 
413 

Ichabod,  ./.  G.  Whittier,  388. 

Illumination  for  Victories  in  Mexico,  Grace  Green 
wood,  371. 

In  Apia  Bay,  C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  597. 

In  .he  Land  where  we  were  Dreaming,  D.  B.  Lucas, 
546. 

Independence  Day,  Royall  Tyler,  179. 

Indian  Names,  L.  H.  Sioourney,  587. 

Inspiration,  The,  James  Montgomery,  8. 

International  Episode,  An,  C.  T.  Duer,  598. 

Islands  of  the  Sea,  The,  G.  E.  Woodberry,  641. 

Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for  Gold,  E.  C.  Stedman,  567. 


J.  A.  G.,  J.  W.  Howe,  589. 

Jack  Creamer,  J.  J.  Roche,  295. 

Jackson  at  New  Orleans,  Wallace  Rice,  325. 

Jefferson  D.,  H.  C.  Cornwell,  401. 

Jefferson  Davis,  W.  M.  Bell,  545. 

John  Brown,  E.  D.  Proctor,  397. 

John  Brown:  A  Paradox,  L.  J.  Guiney,  397. 

John  Brown's  Body,  C.  S.  Hall,  397. 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg,  Bret.  Harte,  493. 

John  Charles  Fre'mont,  C.  F.  Lummis,  345. 

John  Filson,  W.  H.  Venable,  331. 

John  Pelham,  J.  R.  Randall,  482. 

John  Smith's  Approach  to  Jamestown,  J.  B.  Hope, 

38. 

John  Underbill,  J.  G.  WhiUier,  74. 
Johnny  Appleseed,  W.  H.  Venable,  334. 
Jonathan  to  John,  J.  R.  Lowell,  430. 
Just  One  Signal,  Unknown,  614. 

Kane,  Fitz-James  O'Brien,  379. 
Kansas  Emigrants,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  389. 
Kearny  at  Seven  Pines,  E.  C.  Stedman,  437. 
Kearsarge,  S.  W.  Mitchell,  526. 
Kearsarge,  The,  J.  J.  Roche,  602. 
Kearsarge  and  Alabama,  Unknown,  526. 
Keenan's  Charge,  G.  P.  Lathrop,  484. 
Kentucky  Belle,  C.  F.  Woolson,  494. 
Kidnapping  of  Sims,  The,  John  Pierpont,  388. 
King  of  the  Belgians,  M.  C.  Smith,  676. 
King  Philip's  Last  Stand,  Clinton  Scollard,  88. 
King's  Missive,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  80. 
King's  Own  Regulars,  The,  Unknown,  150. 
Klondike,  The,  E.  A.  Robinson,  604. 
Ku-Klux,  Madison  Cawein,  562. 

La  Fayette,  Dolly  Madison,  349. 

Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Bloody  Brook,  The, 
E.  E.  Hale,  82. 

Land  of  the  Wilful  Gospel,  Sidney  Lanier,  265. 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  Felicia  Hermans, 
57. 

Last  Appendix  to  "Yankee  Doodle,"  The,  Un 
known,  376. 

Last  Meeting  of  Pocahontas  and  the  Great  Cap 
tain,  The,  M.  J.  Preston,  43. 

Last  Reservation,  The,  Walter  Learned,  586.. 

Laus  Deo,  J.  G.  Whittier,  481.  _ 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne,  J.  G.  Whittier,  392. 

League  of  Nations,  The,  Mary  Siegrist,  677. 

Lecompton's  Black  Brigade,  C.  G.  Halpine,  398. 

Lee  to  the  Rear,  J.  R.  Thompson,  518. 

Lee's  Parole,  Marion  Manville,  524. 

Legend  of  Walbach  Tower,  The,  George  Hovghton, 
306. 

Legend  of  Waukulla,  The,  Hezekiah  Butterworlh, 
19. 

Lexington,  Sidney  Lanier,  146. 

Lexington,  O.  W.  Holmes,  147. 

Lexington,  J.  G.  Whittier,  153. 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World,  E.  C.  Stedman, 
595. 

Liberty  Pole,  The,  Unknown,  131. 

Liberty  Tree,  Thomas  Paine,  141. 

Lincoln,  S.  W.  Mitchell,  537. 

Lincoln  at  Gettysburg,  Bayard  Taylor,  497. 

Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People,  Edwin  Markham, 
399. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


717 


Little  Big  Horn,  Ernest  McGaffey,  581. 

Little  Black-Eyed  Rebel,  The,  Will  Carlelon,  209. 

Little  Drummer,  The,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  451. 

Little  Giffen,  F.  O.  Ticknor,  460. 

Logan  at  Peach  Tree  Creek,  Harrdin  Garland,  510. 

Lord  North's  Recantation,  Unknown,  204. 

Lords  of  the  Main,  The,  Joseph  Stansbury,  241. 

Lost  War-Sloop,  The,  E.  D.  Proctor,  311. 

Louisburg,  Unknown,  110.  > 

Lovewell's  Fight,  Unknown,  106. 

Lovewell's  Fight,  Unknown,  108. 

Lust  of  Gold,  The,  James  Montgomery,  24. 

Macdonald's  Raid,  P.  H.  Hayne,  248. 

Mcllrath  of  Malate,  J.  J.  Rooney,  639. 

McKinley,  Unknown,  649. 

Malvern  Hill,  Herman  Melv'Ue,  439. 

Man  who  rode  to  Conemaugh,  The,  J.  E.  Bowen, 

599. 

Manassas,  C.  M.  Warfield,  423. 
Manila  Bay,  Arthur  Hale,  618. 
Marais  du  Cygne,  Le,  J.  G.  Whiltier,  392. 
Marching  Song,  Diana  Burnet,  671. 
Marching  Song  of  Stark's  Men,  The,  E.  E.  Hale, 

193. 

Marching  through  Georgia,  H.  C.  Work,  513. 
Mare  Liberum,  Henry  van  Dyke,  664. 
Marriage  of  Pocahontas,  The,  M .  M.  Webster,  43. 
Marthy  Virginia's  Hand,  G.  P.  Lathrop,  445. 
Martyrs  of  the  Maine,  The,  Rupert  Hughes,  612. 
Maryland  Batallion,  The,  J.  W.  Palmer,  183. 
Maryland  Resolves,  Unknown,  142. 
Massachusetts  Song  of    Liberty,    Mercy    Warren, 

143. 

Mayflower,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  594. 
Mayflower,  The,  E.  W.  Ellsworth,  59. 
Mecklenburg  Declaration,  The,  W.  C.  Elam,  156. 
Men  behind  the  Guns,  The,  J.  J.  Rooney,  637. 
Men  of  the  Alamo,  The,  J.  J.  Roche,  355. 
Men  of  the  Maine,  The,  Clinton  Scollard,  609. 
Men  of  the  Merrimac,  The,  Clinton  Scollard,  626. 
Men  of  the  North  and  West,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  409. 
"Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,  Upharsin,"  Madison  Cawein, 

620. 

Message,  A,  E.  S,  Phelps,  440. 
Midnight  —  September  19,   1881,  J.  B.  O'Reilly, 

589. 

Miles  Keogh's  Horse,  John  Hay,  584. 
Minute-Men    of   Northboro',    The,   Wallace  Rice, 

152. 

Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  speaks,  J.  R.  Lowdl,  360. 
"  Mr.  Johnson's  Policy  of  Reconstruction,"  C.  Q. 

Halpine,  559. 

Mistress  Hale  of  Beverly,  Lucy  Larcom,  97. 
Modern  Jonas,  The,  Unknown,  232. 
Molly  Pitcher,  L.  E.  Richards,  213. 
Molly  Pitcher,  K.  B.  Sherwood,  213. 
Monterey,  C.  F.  Hoffman,  363. 
Montgomery  at  Quebec,  Clinton  Scollard,  171. 
Morgan  Stanwood,  Hiram  Rich,  151. 
Mosby  at  Hamilton,  Madison  Cawein,  482. 
Mother  Country,  The,  Benjamin  Franklin,  142. 
Mothers  of  the  West,  The,  W.  D.  Gallagher,  330. 
Mugford's  Victory,  J.  W.  Chadwick,  174. 
Mumford,  /.  M.  Porter,  476. 
My  Maryland,  J.  R.  Randall,  415. 
Mystery  of  Cro-a-tan,  The,  M.  J.  Preston,  36. 


Nathan  Hale,  Unknown,  185. 

Nathan  Hale,  F.  M.  Finch,  186. 

National  Ode,  The,  Bayard  Taylor,  575. 

National  Song,  W.  H.  VenoMe,  659. 

Ned  Braddock,  J.  W.  Palmer,  114. 

New  Ballad,  A,  Unknown,  205. 

New-Come  Chief,  The,  J.  R.  Lowell,  168. 

New  England's  Annoyances,  Unknown,  65. 

New  England's  Chevy  Chase,  E.  E.  Hale,  148. 

New  England's  Growth,  William  Bradford,  69. 

New  National  Hymn,  F.  M.  Crawford,  596. 

New  Roof,  The,  Francis  Hopkinson,  270. 

New  Song,  A,  Unknown,  137. 

New  Song,  A,  Joseph  Stansbury,  240. 

New  Song  called  the  Gaspee,  A,  Unknown,  135. 

New  Song  to  an  Old  Tune,  A,  Unknown,  432. 

New  War  Song  by  Sir  Peter  Parker,  A,  Unknown, 

182. 

Newes  from  Virginia,  Richard  Rich,  40. 
News  from  Yorktown,  L.  W.  Smith,  257. 
Nineteenth  of  April,  The,  Lucy  Larcom,  414. 
No  More  Words,  Franklin  Lushington,  410. 
Norembega,  J.  G.  Whiltier,  32. 
Norsemen,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  4. 

O  Captain!  My  Captain,  Walt  Whitman,  537. 
O  Land  Beloved,  G.  E.  Woodberry,  660. 
Obsequies  of  Stuart,  J.  R.  Thompson,  519. 
Occasioned  by   General   Washington's  Arrival  in 

Philadelphia,  on  his  Way  to  his  Residence  in  Vir 
ginia,  Philip  Freneau,  263. 
Ocean-Fight,  The,  Unknown,  310. 
Ode  in  Memory  of  the  American  Volunteers  fallen 

for  France,  Alan  Seeger,  664. 
Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,  An,  W.  V.  Moody,  646. 
Ode  on  the  Unveiling  of  the  Shaw  Memorial  on 

Boston  Common,  An,  T.  B.  AWrich,  603. 
Ode    recited    at    the    Harvard    Commemoration, 

J.  R.  Lowell,  550. 

Ode  to  Jamestown,  J.  K.  Paulding,  46. 
Ode  to  Peace,  Unknown,  329. 
Ode  to  the  Inhabitants  of  Pennsylvania,  Unknown, 

114. 

Off  from  Boston,  Unknown,  176. 
"Off  Manilly,"  E.  V.  Cooke,  618. 
"Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race,"  W.  C.  Bryant, 

268. 

Old  Cove,  The,  H.  H.  Brownell,  401. 
Old  Fort  Meigs,  Unknown,  300. 
Old  Ironsides,  O.  W.  Holmes,  351. 
Old  Santa  Fe  Trail,  The,  Richard  Burton,  346. 
Old  Tippecanoe,  Unknown,  353. 
On  a  Fortification  at  Boston  begun  by  Women, 

Benjamin  Tompson,  85. 
On  a  Soldier  fallen  in  the  Philippines,  W.  V.  Moody, 

643. 

On  Board  the  Cumberland,  G.  H.  Boker,  464. 
On  Captain  Barney's  Victory  over  the  Ship  General 

Monk,  Philip  Freneau,  227. 

On  Disbanding  the  Army,  David  Humphrey*,  262. 
On  Fort  Sumter,  Unknown,  403. 
On  Independence,  J.  M.  Sewall,  179. 
On  Laying  the  Corner-Stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 

Monument,  John  Pierpont,  348. 
On  Sir  Henry  Clinton's  Recall,  Unknown,  259. 
On  the  Big  Horn,  J.  G.  Whittier,  585. 
On  the  British  Invasion,  Philip  Freneau,  312. 


718 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


On  the  British  King's  Speech,  Philip  Freneau,  261. 

On  the  Capture  of  the  Guerriere,  Philip  Freneau, 
290. 

On  the  Death  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  Philip  Fre 
neau,  275. 

On  the  Death  of  Captain  Nicholas  Biddle,  Philip 
Freneau,  220. 

On  the  Death  of  Commodore  Oliver  H.  Perry, 
J.  G.  C.  Brainard,  347. 

On  the  Death  of  "Jackson,"  Unknown,  417. 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  Fitz- 
Greene  Halleck,  348. 

On  the  Death  of  M.  d'Ossoli  and  his  Wife,  Mar 
garet  Fuller,  W.  S.  Landor,  376. 

On  the  Death  of  President  Garfield,  O.  W.  Holmes, 
590. 

On  the  Defeat  at  Ticonderoga  or  Carilong,  Un 
known,  117. 

On  the  Defeat  of  Henry  Clay,  W.  W.  Lord,  376. 

On  the  Departure  of  the  British  from  Charleston, 
Philip  Freneau,  260. 

On  the  Discoveries  of  Captain  Lewis,  Joel  Barlow, 
341. 

On  the  Emigration  to  America  and  Peopling  the 
Western  Country,  Philip  Freneau,  331. 

On  the  Eve  of  War,  Danske  Dandridge,  612. 

On  the  Late  Successful  Expedition  against  Loais- 
bourg,  Francis  Hopkinson,  118. 

On  the  Snake  depicted  at  the  Head  of  Some  Ameri 
can  Newspapers,  Unknown,  140. 

On  to  Richmond,  J.  R.  Thompson,  426. 

Oritz,  Hczekiah  Butterworth,  26. 

Our  Country,  J.  W.  Hmce,  71. 

Our  Country's  Call,  W.  C.  Bryant,  410. 

Our  First  Century,  G.  E.  Woodberry,  572. 

"Our  Left,"  F.  O.  Ticknor,  441. 

Our  Modest  Doughboys,  Charlton  Andrews,  671. 

Our  National  Banner,  Dexttr  Smith,  578. 

Out  and  Fight,  C.  G.  Leland,  409. 

Outward  Bound,  E.  S.  Tylee,  650. 

Pacific  Railway,  The,  C.  R.  Battard,  579. 

Panama,  A.  T.  Jones,  652. 

Panama,  J.  J.  Roche,  651. 

Pardon,  J.  W.  Howe,  539. 

Parricide,  J.  W.  Howe,  542. 

Parson  Allen's  Ride,  Wallace  Bruce,  194. 

Parting  of  the  Ways,  The,  J.  B.  Gilder,  609. 

Paul  Jones,  Unknown,  222. 

Paul  Jones,  Unknown,  224. 

Paul  Jones  —  A  New  Song,  Unknown,  224. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  144. 

Peace,  Phoebe  Gary,  548. 

Peace,  A.  D.  T.  Whitney,  547. 

Peace  Message,  The,  B.  E.  Stevenson,  60. 

Pennsylvania  Song,  Unknown,  142. 

Pentucket,  J.  G.  Whittier,  105. 

Perry's  Victory,  Unknown,  303. 

Perry's  Victory  —  A  Song,  Unknown,  305. 

Pershing  at  the  Tomb  of  Lafayette,  A.  J.  Burr,  667. 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call,  E.  C.  Sted- 

man,  54. 

Picket-Guard,  The,  E.  L.  Beers,  433. 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  The,  John  Pierpont,  66. 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  The,  William  Wordsworth,  66. 
Plea  for  Flood  Ireson,  A,  C.  T.  Brooke,  284. 
Pocahontaa,  G.  P.  Morris,  39. 


Pccahontas,  W.  M.  Thackeray,  38. 

Poem  containing  Some  Remarks  on  the  Present 
War,  A,  Unknown,  173. 

Ponce  de  Leon,  E.  M.  Thomas,  22. 

Praise  of  New  Netherland,  The,  Jacob  Sleendam, 
52. 

President  Garfield,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  591. 

Private  Blair  of  the  Regulars,  Clinton  ScoUcard, 
631. 

Prize  of  the  Margaretta,  The,  Will   Carleton,  155. 

Proclamation,  A,  Unknown,  138. 

Proclamation,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  76. 

Proclamation,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  480. 

Progress  of  Sir  Jack  Drag,  The,  Unknown,  200. 

Prologue  from  "Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms," 
H.  W.  Longfellow,  88. 

Prologue  from  "John  Endicott,"  H.  W.  Longfel 
low,  71. 

Prophecy,  Gulian  Verplanck,  144. 

Prophecy,  Luigi  Pulci,  7. 

Prophecy,  A,  Arthur  Lee,  125. 

Put  it  Through,  E.  E.  Hale,  509. 

Quivira,  Arthur  Cfuiterman,  31. 


Race  of  the  Oregon,  The,  J.  J.  Meehan,  624. 

Radical  Song  of  1786,  A,  St.  John  Honeywood,  269. 

Ready,  Phoebe  Cory,  461. 

Rear  Guard,  The,  /.  F.  Brown,  562. 

"Rebels,"  Ernest  Crosby,  643. 

Reid  at  Fayal,  J.  W.  Palmer,  319. 

Rejoice,  Joaquin  Miller,  587. 

Reparation  or  War,  Unknown,  286. 

Republic,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  660. 

Republic  to  Republic,  Witter  Bynner,  666. 

Resurge  San  Francisco,  Joaquin  Miller,  658. 

Return,  The,  E.  R.  Cox,  676. 

Reuben,  James,  J.  J.  Roche,  282. 

Reveille,  The,  Bret  Harte,  442. 

Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,  The,  //.   W.  Long* 

fellow,  583. 

Pide  of  Collins  Graves,  The,  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  571. 
Riding  with  Kilpatrick,  Clinton  Scollard,  488. 
Rifleman's  Song  at  Bennington,  The,    Unknown, 

193. 

Rio  Bravo,  C.  F.  Hoffman,  362. 
Rising,  The,  T.  B.  Read,  154. 
River  Fight,  The,  H.  H.  Brownell,  468. 
Road  to  France,  The,  Danitl  Henderson,  667. 
Robert  E.  Lee,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  524. 
Rodney's  Ride,  Unknown,  177. 
Roper  Williams,  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  72. 
Romance,  W.  E.  Henley,  516. 
Rouge  Bouquet,  Joyce  Kilmer,  670. 
Royal  Adventurer,  The,  Philip  Freneau,  241. 
Run  from  Manassas  Junction,  The,  Unknown,  425. 
Running  the  Batteries,  Herman  Melmtte,  498. 
Running  the  Blockade,  Nora  Perry,  215. 
Rush  of  the  Oregon,  The,  Arthur  Gutter-man,  637. 

Sa-ca-ga-we-a,  E.  D.  Proctor,  340. 

Sack  of  Deerfield,  The,  T.  D.  English,  102. 

Sailing  of  the  Fleet,  The,  Unknown,  622. 

Sainclaire's  Defeat,  Unknown,  332. 

St.  John,  J.  G.  Whittier,  99. 

Saint  Leger,  Clinton  Scollard,  199. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


719 


Salem,  E.  C.  Stedman,  89. 

Salem  Witch,  A,  E.  P.  Clarke,  91. 

San  Francisco,  J.  V.  Cheney,  657. 

San  Francisco,  Joaquin  Miller,  657. 

Santiago,  T.  A.  Janvier,  633. 

Saratoga  Song,  Unknown,  202. 

Savannah,  A.  S.  Burroughs,  514. 

Sea  and  Land  Victories,  Unknown,  328. 

Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army,  A,  Bret  Harte, 

548. 

Seicheprey,  Unknown,  672. 
Sergeant  Champe,  Unknown,  239. 
Settler,  The,  A.  B.  Street,  329. 
Seventy-Six,  W.  C.  Bryant,  191. 
Shannon  and  the  Chesapeake,  The,  T.  T.  Bouve,  300. 
Sheridan  at  Cedar  Creek,  Herman  Melville,  521. 
Sheridan's  Ride,  T.  B.  Read,  521. 
Sherman 's  in  Savannah,  O.  W.  Holmes,  514. 
Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea,  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  512. 
Ship  Canal  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  The, 

Francis  Lieber,  374. 
Shop  and  Freedom,  Unknown,  428. 
Siege  of  Chapultepec,  The,  W.  II.  Lytle,  371. 
Sinking  of  the  Merrimack,  The,  Lucy  Larcom,  468. 
Sir  Henry  Clinton's  Invitation  to  the  Refugees, 

Philip  Freneau,  229. 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  H.  W.  Lonyfettow,  3i. 
Skeleton  in  Armor,  The,  H.  W.  Longfelloio,  <5. 
Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  /.  G.  Whittier,  283. 
Song,  A,  Unknown,  130. 
Song,  A,  Unknown,  157. 
Song,  A,  Unknown,  172. 
Song  about  Charleston,  A,  Unknown,  246. 
Song  of  Braddock's  Men,  The,  Unknown,  112. 
Song  of  Marion's  Men,  W.  C.  Bryant,  248. 
Song  of  Panama,  A,  A.  D.  Runyon,  652. 
Song  of  Sherman's  Army,  The,  C.  G.  Halpine,  513. 
Song  of  Texas,  W.  H.  C.  Hosmer,  358. 
Song  of  the  Flags,  The,  S.  W.  Mitchell,  655. 
Song  of  the  Pilgrims,  T.  C.  Uuham,  57. 
Song  on  Captain  Barney's  Victory  over  the  Ship 

General  Monk,  Philip  Freneau,  227. 
Sonnets  written  in  the  Fall  of  1914,  G.  E.  Wood- 
berry,  661. 

South  Carolina,  The,  Unknown,  228. 
South  Carolina  to  the  States  of  the  North,  P.  H. 

Hayne,  561. 

Spain's  Last  Armada,  Wallace  Rice,  632. 
Spirit  of  the  Maine,  The,  Tudor  Jenks,  621. 
Spool  of  Thread,  A,  S.  E.  Eastman,  402. 
"Stack  Arms,"  J.  B.  Alston,  545. 
Star,  The,  M .  C.  Smith,  674. 
Star-Spangled  Banner,  The,  F.  S.  Key,  317. 
Steer,  Bold  Mariner,  On,  Friedrich  Schiller,  12. 
Stonewall  Jackson,  H .  L.  Flash,  486. 
Stonewall  Jackson's  Way,  J.  W.  Palmer,  483. 
Storming  of  Stony  Point,  The,  Arthur  Guiterman, 

230. 

Story  of  Vinland,  The,  Sidney  Lanier,  3. 
Stricken  South  to  the  North,  The,  P.  H.  Hayne, 

564. 

Strike  the  Blow,  Unknown,  625. 
Sudbury  Fight,  The,  Wallace  Rice,  85. 
Sumter,  H   H.  BrowneU,  408. 
Sumter,  E.  C.  Stedman,  404. 
Sumter  —  A  Ballad  of  1861,  Unknown,  405, 
Sumter's  Band,  J.  W.  Simmons,  250. 


Surprise  at  Ticonderoga,  The,  M.  A.  P.  Stansbury, 

157. 
Surrender  at  Appomattoz,  The,  Herman  Melville, 

524. 

Surrender  of  Cornwallis,  The,  Unknown,  257. 
Surrender  of  New  Orleans,  The,  Marion  Manville, 

475. 
Swamp  Fox,  The,  W.  G.  Simms.  247. 

Tardy  George,  Unknown,  433. 

Tennessee,  V.  F.  Boyle,  603. 

Terrapin  War,  Unknown,  286. 

Texas,  J.  G.  Whittier,  358. 

Thaddeus  Stevens,  Phoebe  Cary,  560. 

Thanksgiving  for  America,  The,  Hezekiah  Butter' 

worth,  15. 

Thanksgiving  Hymn,  Unknown,  264. 
Thanksgiving   in   Boston   Harbor,   The,    Hezekiah 

Butterworth,  67. 

Theodosia  Burr,  J.  W.  Palmer,  346. 
Thomas  at  Chickamauga,  K.  B.  Sherwood,  502. 
Those  Rebel  Flags,  J.  H.  Jewett,  654. 
Three  Hundred  Thousand  More,  J.  S.  Gibbons,  440. 
Through  Baltimore,  Bayard  Taylor,  414. 
Through  Fire  in  Mobile  Bay,  Unknown,  529. 
Times,  The,  Unknown,  285. 
To  Aaron  Burr,  under  Trial  for  High  Treason, 

S.  W.  Morton,  338. 
To  America,  on  Her  First  Sons  Fallen  in  the  Great 

War,  E.  M.  Walker,  670. 
To  Arms,  Park  Benjamin,  363. 
To  John  C.  Fremont,  /.  G.  Whittier,  477. 
To  San  Francisco,  S.  J.  Alexander,  657. 
To  Spain  —  A  Last  Word,  E.  M.  Thomas,  612. 
To  the  Defenders  of  New  Orleans,  J.  R.  Drake,  32C. 
To  the  Federal  Convention,  Timothy  Dwight,  270. 
To  the  Returning  Brave,  R.  U.  Johnson,  675. 
To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress,  J.  G.  Whittier,  559. 
To  the  United  States  of  America,  Robert  Bridges,  666. 
To  the  Virginian  Voyage,  Michael  Drayton,  42. 
To  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  J.  G.  Whittier,  385. 
Toast  to  Our  Native  Land,  A,  Robert  Bridges,  649. 
Tom  Gage's  Proclamation,  Unknown,  160. 
Tomb  of  the  Brave,  The,  Joseph  Hutton,  339. 
Treason's  Last  Device,  E.  C.  Stedman,  480. 
Trenton  and  Princeton,  Unknown,  188. 
Trial,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  92. 
Trip  to  Cambridge,  The,  Unknown,  169. 
Triumph,  The,  Sidney  Lanier,  12. 
Truxton's  Victory,  Unknown,  279. 
Turtle,  The,  Unknown,  462. 
Twilight  on  Sumter,  JR.  H.  Stoddard,  509. 

Ulric  Dahlgren,  K.  B.  Sherwood,  517. 

Under  the  Shade  of  the  Trees,  M.  J.  Preston,  486. 

Unguarded  Gates,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  659. 

Unhappy  Boston,  Paul  Revere,  134. 

United  States  and  Macedonian,  The,    Unknown, 

293. 
United  States  and   Macedonian,  The,    Unknown, 

294. 

Unreturning,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard,  674. 
Upon  the  Hill  before  Centreville,  G.  H.  Boker,  420. 

Valley  Forge,  T.  B.  Read,  207. 

Valor  of  Ben  Milam,  The,  Clinton  ScoUard,  354. 

Varuna,  The,  G.  H.  Boker,  474. 


720 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Verazzano,  Hezekiah  Bulterworlh,  25. 

Vicksburg,  P.  H.  Hayne,  499. 

Victor  Galbraith,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  364. 

Victor  of  Antietam,  The,  Herman  Melville,  445. 

Victory  Bells,  O.  H.  Conkling,  673. 

Victory- Wreck,  The,  Will  Carleton,  627. 

Virginia  Capta,  M .  J.  Preston,  523. 

Virginia  Song,  The,  Unknown,  129. 

Virginians  of  the  Valley,  The,  F.  O.  Ticknor,  417. 

Volunteers,  The,  W .  H.  Lytle,  374. 

Vow  of  Washington,  The,  J.  G.  Whittier,  274. 

Wait  for  the  Wagon,  Unknown,  419. 

Wanted  —  A  Man,  E.  C.  Stedman,  435. 

War  and  Washington,  J.  M.  Se-wall,  170. 

War  Ship  of  Peace,  The,  Samuel  Lover,  375. 

War-Token,  The,  H.  W.  Longfellow,  61. 

Warren's  Address  to  the  American  Soldiers,  John 
Pierpont,  161. 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The,  J.  R.  LoweU,  450. 

Washington,  Lord  Byron,  276. 

Washington,  J.  J.  Roche,  274. 

Washington's  Monument,  Unknown,  280. 

Wasp's  Frolic,  The,  Unknown,  293. 

Wayne  at  Stony  Point,  Clinton  ScoUard,  230. 

"We  Conquer  or  Die,"  James  Pierpont,  412. 

Welcome  to  the  Nations,  O.  W.  Holmes,  574. 

What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks,  J.  R.  LoweU,  369. 

What  *s  in  a  Name,  H.  F.  More,  146. 

Wheeler  at  Santiago,  J.  L.  Gordon,  631. 

Wheeler's  Brigade  at  Santiago,  Wallace  Rice,  629. 

When  Johnnie  comes  marching  Home,  P.  S.  Gil- 
more,  549. 

When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  come  in,  G.  W.  Carryl, 
640. 


"When  there  is  Peace,"  Austin  Dobson,678. 
When  this  Cruel  War  is  Over,  C.  C.  Sawyer,  677. 
"White  City,  The,"  R.  W.  Gilder,  602. 
White    Ships   and   the   Red,  The,    Joyce  Kilmer, 

663. 
Whitman's  Ride  for  Oregon,  Hezekiah  Butterworth, 

342. 

"William  P.  Frye,"  The,  J.  R.  Foster,  662. 
With  Corse  at  Allatoona,  S.  H.  M.  Byers,  511. 
With  Cortez  in  Mexico,  W.  W.  Campbell,  24. 
Word  of  God  to  Leyden  came,  The,  J.  E.  Rankin, 

56. 
Word  of  the  Lord  from  Havana,  The,   Richard, 

Honey,  610. 
World    turned    Upside    Down,    The,     Unknown, 

130. 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The,  H.   W.  Longfellow, 

351. 
Wyoming  Massacre,  The,  Uriah  Terry,  217. 

Yankee    Doodle's    Expedition   to    Rhode    Island, 

Unknown,  214. 

Yankee  Man-of-War,  The,  Unknown,  228. 
Yankee  Privateer,  The,  Arthur  Hale,  221. 
Yankee  Thunders,  Unknown,  296. 
Yankees  Return  from  Camp,  The,  Edward  Bangs, 

159. 

Ye  Parliament  of  England,  Unknown,  318. 
Ye  Sons  of  Columbia,  T.  G.  Fessenden,  278. 
Year  of  Jubilee,  The,  H.  C.  Work,  523. 
Yorktown  Centennial  Lyric,  P.  H.  Hayne,  592. 
Your  Lad,  and  My  Lad,  Randall  Parrish,  668. 

Zagonyi,  G.  H.  Boker,  453. 
Zollicoffer,  //.  L.  Flash,  454. 


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